"Good-by, little one,"
he said to Charmides, and pushed through the crowd.
Menon sat down trembling. If his boy should win in the pentathlon also!
That would be too great glory. It could not happen. He began to mutter a
hundred prayers. Another race was called--the double race, twice around
the course. But Menon did not stand to see it. He could think of nothing
but his glorious son. After the race was another great shout. Some other
boy was carrying a palm. Some other father was proud. Then followed
wrestling, bout after bout, and cheering from the crowd. But Menon cared
little for it all.
It was now near noon. The sun shone down scorchingly. A wind whirled
dust up from the race course into people's faces.
"My throat needs wetting," cried a man.
He pulled off a little vase of wine that hung from his girdle and passed
it to Menon, saying:
"I should be proud if the father of the victor would drink from my
bottle."
And Menon took it, smiling proudly. Then he himself opened a little
cloth bag and drew out figs and nuts.
"Here is something to munch, lad," he said to Charmides.
Other people, also, were eating and drinking. They walked about to visit
their friends or sat down to rest. Menon's neighbor sank upon his seat
with a sigh.
"This is the first time I have sat down since sunrise," he laughed.
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