Bunny relaxed and began to breathe easier. By his side, some boy was puffing mightily, like a motor with its exhaust open. Not till the other spoke, though, did Bunny recognize who it was.
"He—he can't hold his—lead," wheezed Specs mournfully. "See! What—what did I tell you? He's losing—losing ground every second."
Rodman was, too. There was no question about his determination; he was running with every ounce of will and ambition. But something was wrong.
"He—he's just no good!" puffed Specs. "Can't run—or jump—or throw—or anything. No good!"
The All-School runner was at Rodman's heels now. He swerved to the outside and came abreast of his opponent. For a brief span, they ran side by side. Then, like an elastic band that stretches longer and longer as the pull upon it increases, the gap widened alarmingly.
"I told you so," groaned Specs. "He's going to lose the race for us."
"It isn't lost yet," said Bunny grimly. He walked out upon the track, breathing hard and with knees wobbling treacherously. It seemed suffocatingly hot. Already his forehead was moist with perspiration.
The seconds he waited for the runners to reach him seemed to stretch into hours. At last, when the suspense was driving twitches through every muscle of his body, he heard the grateful thud-thud of feet behind him. Half turning, he held out his hand. But it was not Rodman; he realized that when he saw that the extended block was blue. Buck Claxton grabbed it, leaped forward like a race horse when the barrier is sprung, and was yards away before Bunny's bewildered brain righted.
