"You want to watch closely now," said Chance, with an unholy grin, "you're going to see something."
"What? You've——"
But a horrified cry from the spectators interrupted the words. Herc had risen gracefully at the bar, and had seemed about to sail over it. Instantly bedlam had seethed about the field.
"Taylor, of the Manhattan, wins!"
"Good boy, red-top!"
"Go to it, freckles!"
But in a flash the cries of enthusiasm had been changed to that peculiar sighing gasp that runs through a crowd at a sudden turn to the tragic in their emotions.
As Herc had lifted his body outward to sail over the bar, the pole had suddenly snapped beneath him.
The horrified spectators saw the lad's body hurtled downward. Herc, as he fell, narrowly missed impalement on the jagged, broken end of the pole. But the lad's muscles were under prime control. Even as he fell, he seemed to make a marvelous twist.