Reddy glanced at his watch. They must be coming now. The leader poised his baton expectantly.
“Wait,” said Reddy confidently, “till the first one gets abreast of the hotel. Then let her go for all you’re worth.”
Minutes passed that seemed like hours. Then there was a stir among the crowds, a craning of necks, a murmur growing into a roar, and the leading runner came in sight. Reddy took one look and turned pale. The leader lifted his baton as the runner drew nearer.
“Not yet,” cried Reddy, clutching at him fiercely. “Not yet.”
A second runner appeared and then a third.
“Not yet,” groaned Reddy. “O, hivins, not yet.”
Then down the street came a flying figure. Reddy needed no second glance. He knew that giant stride, those plunging leaps. On he came like a thunderbolt, and the crowd drew back as though from a runaway horse.
“Now,” screamed Reddy. “Now.”
And in one great crash the band broke out into the glorious strains of “The Star Spangled Banner.”
Bert lifted his head. The music poured through his veins like liquid fire and his heart almost leaped from his body. His strength had been oozing away, his breath was coming in sobs. His shoes had been torn off and cast aside, his bruised feet tortured him at every stride, and every ounce of power had been cruelly taxed in the effort to close up the gap caused by the accident. Now he was running on his nerve. And just at this moment, like an electric shock to his ebbing strength, came the thrilling strains that might have stirred the dead: