Yes, they were spurting for the finish, but, to the amazement of Yates' friends, a single bound had seemed to carry Frank Merriwell two yards in advance of the other runner, and this advantage Merriwell maintained.
In another moment the station would be reached, and the race must end. Seeing this, Andy Emery was bitterly grinding out an exclamation of rage and disgust.
Suddenly Yates seemed to trip and fall heavily. He tried to spring up, but seemed to be hurt, and he was struggling to rise when Flemming reached the spot and lifted him to his feet.
"Are you hurt?" asked several, as they gathered around Duncan.
"Not much," he answered, rather thickly; "but I lost the dash by that fall."
"Rats!" muttered Harry Rattleton. "He had lost it before he fell."
"I was ready to make the final spurt, which would have carried me ahead of Merriwell at the finish," declared Yates.
"Oh, it is a case of beastly luck!" growled Andy Emery. "It is the way everything turns in Merriwell's favor. He never wins except it is by cold luck."
"Oh, come off!" chirped Danny Griswold. "You're sore, that's all ails you!"