It is unusual
for a Duke, a Chairman of an important Railway Company, and a
Secretary of State to run races in a London street at ten o'clock
at night, especially when the three of them were long past their
sixtieth year, but I feel certain that my confidence about this
little episode will be respected.
I fear that this habit of running races late in life may be a
family failing. During my father's second tenure of office as
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, he was still an enthusiastic
cricketer, and played regularly in the Viceregal team in spite of
his sixty-four years. The Rev. Dr. Mahaffy, Professor of Ancient
History at Trinity College, Dublin, also played for the Viceregal
Lodge in his capacity of Chaplain to the Viceroy. Dr. Mahaffy,
though a fine bowler, was the worst runner I have ever seen. He
waddled and paddled slowly over the ground like a duck, with his
feet turned outwards, exactly as that uninteresting fowl moves. My
father frequently rallied Dr. Mahaffy on his defective locomotive
powers, and finally challenged him to a two hundred yards race.
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