Ken was in trouble. His pallid face was twisting with pain, and his arms floated helplessly at his side. “Blackie!” he gasped. “Cramps! I’m done——”
Dunning forged ahead, either not hearing of Haviland’s plight or else, still smarting from his defeat, determined that nothing should interfere to lose him this last and decisive race. Blackie held his stroke, and Dunning caught up with him in an instant.
For only a split second did Blackie hesitate. Two voices seemed to be shouting in his ears at the same time, arguing against each other.
“Ken is out of it, but there’s still a good chance that Mullins will beat Lipsky for third. Go ahead and win!” counselled the first.
“But Ken has cramps—he’ll drown if you don’t help him!” contended the other voice.
“He hates you—don’t throw away your big chance to win just on his account! He said himself he’d rather lose the meet than have you win!”
“No, he’s sick! He needs you!”
A clock was ticking somewhere in his brain, ticking off the fractions of seconds in which he must make up his mind what to do. Already Dunning was beyond him, plowing determinedly for the goal. Blackie made his decision. In a few speedy strokes he was by Ken’s side.
“I’ll hold you up—don’t struggle!” he shouted in the aide’s ear, and put forth a supporting arm. Ken’s face was blanched and torn with pain, and he floundered about helplessly, the muscles of his limbs knotted in paralyzing lumps, his abdomen gripped with shooting pangs. Blackie knew that he must be very sick indeed.
Soapy Mullins passed them some yards to their right, followed by Lipsky trailing unsteadily in his wake.