A singing came into Tom’s ears. It sounded like the beating of the waves of the sea. His heart was a pump, working at double speed. His legs were like the pistons of some engine, darting back and forth. They did not seem to belong to him, but to be separate from his body.
Once or twice he thought of looking down, to make sure that they were fast to his trunk, but he knew he must keep his eyes ahead of him, and his head well up. Now and then he glanced across to where Langridge was running. The Boxer Hall lad was still in his place, even with Tom. The foremost Exter runner was still lagging behind.
“I’ve got to shake him off—shake Langridge,” thought Tom, and it seemed as if he was someone else saying this.
The finish tape loomed in sight. The eager judges and timekeepers crowded to the course. Now was the time to spurt if ever.
“Come on, Tom! Come on!” yelled scores of encouraging voices, and once more Bean Perkins and his cohorts sang a song of victory.
“Langridge! Langridge!” cried his mates, and the Exter lad’s fellows shouted to him to win.
On and on raced Tom. It seemed as if he could not keep it up. His legs were senseless—his feet like lead—his breath was all but gone.
“But I must do it! I must—for the honor of Randall!” he seemed to shout, yet no sound came from between his lips.
“Now!” yelled Holly Cross, who was watching Tom. “Come!”