Slowly he crept up. Foot by foot the distance between the two was lessened, until at length it was reduced to a yard. But there was not enough time. Already the finish was in sight, and the eager watchers waited in strained silence the end of this amazing race. Could the gamey fellow from Yale possibly make up those three feet in the few seconds which remained? They feared not, for almost without exception, their sympathies were with the man who was now showing such extraordinary pluck.
There was a final spurt on the part of both men, and then, almost in the last stride, Stovebridge flung himself forward with uplifted arms, and breasted the tape a fraction in advance of Dick.
The Clover Club champion had won, but the resulting applause was strangely feeble. There was scarcely a man present who did not realize that Merriwell was the better of the two.
As Dick reeled across the line, he staggered and a spasm of pain flashed into his face.
Jack Niles caught him by the shoulder.
“Quick, Buckhart!” he ripped out in his sharp, decisive tones. “We must get him into the house and look after that ankle. Good nerve, my boy—good nerve!”
Merriwell smiled faintly.
“Well, I lost the race for you, Niles!” he said.
“Lost be hanged!” snapped the other. “You’re the gamest piece of work that ever came down the pike. Why the deuce didn’t you stop when you twisted your ankle that way?”
“I don’t generally give up when I can still go ahead,” Dick said quietly.