There were five minutes to go before the signal for the start, and Bownas looked Gaunt up and down. Finally, he put out a hand.
“You’re Mr. Gaunt? Pleased to run against ye. I’ve heard o’ ye. Better a tough race than a slack one any day.”
Gaunt’s spirits were rising every moment. He laughed as he took the other’s hand. “By the Lord, we’ll show them what running means, if they’ve never known it before.”
He was heartened by the murmurs of the crowd behind him. “Gaunt’s running to-day,” said one, with a hint of hero-worship in his voice. “We’ll keep the winner i’ our own country yet,” said another. The shabby-genteel man’s assumption that his bets were in danger had been in itself a tribute to his skill. Sympathy was a spur to Gaunt always, and he felt that the crowd was with him.
“You’ve to win, Reuben! Make no mistake o’ that,” murmured Peggy from behind. “I wouldn’t have ’ticed ye to run at all, if I hadn’t been sure o’ your winning.”
He turned and looked her in the eyes. “I begin to fancy I shall, Peggy,” he said; “but ’tis long odds to put me up at a minute’s notice against Bownas of Shap.”
“Ready, are ye?” cried the starter. “Ready? Go!”
There was no excitement at the beginning of the race; and this, too, was in keeping with the dales-folk, who liked their pleasures to be long drawn out. It was only the raw youngsters who showed signs of their paces along the dusty line of road; Gaunt and Bownas trotted quietly at the rear, remembering that a good deal of ground had to slip under their feet before the last swift struggle home.
The haze had lifted now, and the sunlight lay so keen on moor and pasture that those on the bridge, the remotest point of vantage, could see each figure as it climbed the pastures, could follow the men when they gained the darker background of the moor.
Not one of the nine was running now, and three at least were creeping painfully up the breast of the moor.