Under a blazing morning sun， the band marched perfectly into the main street. All were in step. All played in tune.

　　This was the day the town had waited for. It was "our  turn" to see the Prince of Wales on his visit to New Zealand. The whole community lined the street that summer day in the 1920's. Everybody wanted to see the young man who would someday be crowned King of England.

　　The crowds cheered， but I kept my hands deep in my pockets. I was sure that I was the only schoolboy not waving a British flag. Let the others cheer， I told myself.

　　This was their price， not mine. I was the only American boy in the entire province of Hawke's Bay. I must firmly uphold the traditions of the American Revolution.

　　Then I saw him. There， in the black touring car， sat the Prince. He looked exactly the way a British prince ought to look. He was boyish and handsome in ab army officer's uniform. He waved his hand at us.

　　"He's a bit of all right，" a policeman said. Faces smiled. The applause thundered. The crowds moved with the car， and I moved with them to the race cource. The official welcome and the foot races would be held there， near the center of town.

　　I remembered how I always felt on the Fourth of July. On that day I became twice as American as on ordinary days. My dad would raise the flagpole in our garden. Neighbors would slow up as they came by. Puzzled， they might mutter something about "those crazy Amercans." My father would squeeze my shoulder.

　　New Zealand had been my only home， I loved the great sheep stations of Hawake's Bay. But I felt a fierce loyalty to my father - and to America. We "Yanks" must stand together.

　　The race courcese was crowded by the time the Prince and his followers were seated in the reviewing stand. It seemed to me that the whole British Empire was there.

　　I joined the other schoolboys on the turf. Would the speeches never end？ We boys were here not just to see royalty， but to run in a series of foot races.

　　We looked hard at boys from other schools， sizing up the competition. Some of them glanced a bit hopefully at the bandage around the instep of my foot. I was a little afraid of the foot. Three weeks before， I'd slashed it on a broken bottle. The cut was almost healed， but it felt tight when I ran. I wondered if it would pull open in a race.

　　I gazed over at the Price. I had to run although I knew I wasn't the fastest runner. A number of boys had beaten me before. But I would run because I was "a bloomin' Yank" as my chums called me. Somehow， it was important that I should make a small declaration of independence.

　　At school I'd fought the American Revolution a dozen times. And often I'd gone down in bloody-nosed defeat. But I had put up a good fight every time. Now， with my father watching from the stands， the least I could do was run. I'd run to win against the Prince of Wales.

　　His Royalty Highness was speaking the usual official words： "greetings from his Majesty the King here， in this beautiful country" The crowd relaxed. You could feel the good humor spread like sunshine all around us.

　　Mixed feelings rose within me. Maybe the Prince was "a bit of all right." But， no - he wasn't going to get around me. I'd show him what a Yank could do.

　　Then a voice was saying， "Boys of ten and a half - 50 yards. Line up."

　　I was already there. My legs felt as if I'd put on new musles that morning. As I toed the start， the tape looked only steps away. Surely i could win， snapping that tape at the finish line.

　　The starter's voice set us off. The grass seemed to have little springs in it as I ran. All I had to do was press them with my toes. My legs seemed to find them， each a stride apart.

　　The tape snapped at my shirt pocket. An official was saying， "This nipper wins the first race."

　　I entered in races for boys "up to" 11， 12， 13. It didn't feel as if I were running. Instead， I had two sun-tanned horses that leaped， as I drove， over the springing turf. I won four races. There was one more to go.

　　I moved to the starting line for the last race， with even bigger boys. This was different！ My knees seemed to sink on my legs. I felt like somebody's little brother who was being "allowed" to run. Dare I even try？ I thought I'd better pull out. But my chest was high with its secret. Here I was， just an ordinary runner， but I was finding enough speed to win. Only I knew why. I breathed in. The secret was alive inside me. It jumped into my legs at the words， "Get set."

　　My foot was hurting a bit， and I lifted an edge of the bandage. The scar was holding.

　　"Go"！

　　We were off. The turf seemed to hit my feet now. The ground was making sudden hills that went up and down with every stride.

　　I thought of my father watching in the stands. I knew he'd be looking at me the way he did when he raised the flag. I couldn't let him down him now. I leaned into my tights. They gathered the motion - and the tape snapped over my heart.

　　I was rubbing my foot when I saw the polished boots. A voice with a British accent was saying， "Is this the little chap？"

　　I looked up. It was one of the Prince's officers. A schoolmaster was nodding at me. "Come along， young fellow，" the officer said. "The Prince of Wales wants to see you."

　　My stomach seemed to twist up tight. "Me？" I murmured. I tried to squirm off， but he led me along.

　　I felt as though there was a gaping hole where my heart should be. I wished I were a thousand miles away from that race cource. I told myself I was sorry I'd won - but I knew it wasn't ture.

　　Now we were on the reviewing stand. My freckles were boiling on my face. My hands were as cold as butcher meat. The officer was speaking to the Prince， and I heard my name. I saw the Prince looking at me. I gazed down at my feet.

　　"Well， young man，" the Prince was saying， "we just wanted to say that was very nice running. You're a regular little race horse."

　　My head lifted， but I dared not look at his face. I stared hard at the buttons on his jacket. "I'm really not very fast， sir." "You're fast enough to win，" the young Prince said quickly. I locked into the Prince's face. My words spilled out. "I'm an American， sir." My neck and face felt hot as sunburn.

　　A smile came to the Prince's mouth. "American， eh？" He turned to the officer. "You hear that， Fitz？ Still fighting the British！"

　　The Prince crossed his polished riding boots. "I have always liked Americans，" he said.

　　I wanted to smile， but my lips were too tight. "I was born here， though， sir." I almost whispered.

　　The Prince of Wales leaned forward slightly. The sun moved on his blond hair. He lowered his voice. "Were you really running against me - and the British Crown？" he asked.

　　My head nodded ever so slightly. It was like confessing a horrible crime.

　　The Prince glanced up at his officer. Then his voice went still loweer. He leaned toward me. "In that case，" he said， "I helped you win， didn't I？"

　　My head lifted. I grinned. I felt free in the warm look of the blue eyes. For a moment it seemed as if I were entirely along with the Prince of Wales.

　　"Yes， sir." I murmured.

　　The officer's hand was on my shoulder. I was moving away. But I could still feel the Prince words， warm， inside of me. I had shared with him my wonderful， personal secret.

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