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[Mockingly]

Probably! It runs in my family! All of my father’s people were happy lunatics—not healthy, country folk like yours, Sam! Ha!

[Staring at him]

Ned, old man, what’s the trouble? You said “Navy.”

[Ironically—with a bitter hopeless laugh]

Slip of the tongue! I meant Gordon! Meant Gordon, of course! Gordon is always meant—meant to win! Come on, Gordon! It’s fate!

Here they come! They’re both spurting! I can see Gordon’s back!

[Forgetting everything else, turns back to the race]

Come on, boy! Come on, son!

[''The chorus of noise is now a bedlam as the crews near the finish line. The people have to yell and scream to make themselves heard'']

[Getting up—thinking with a strange, strident, wild passion]

I hear the Father laughing! O Mother God, protect my son! let Gordon fly to you in heaven! quick, Gordon! love is the Father’s lightning! Made-