Yes, riding at the head of thirty tired wheelmen, to the stirring strains of a Sousa march, their Jack, strong, superb, excited, nerving himself for the final effort.
Their hearts stopped beating during the instant he was flying by. "There," she whispered reassuringly, "I told you he wouldn't see us. My! Wasn't he fine?"
But John Gardner could not speak, for his eyes were dim with happy pride in remembrance of that superb specimen of perfect manhood six feet high—his Jack, to whom he had given the "eddication."
They watched the rest of the race with little interest, for the best of it all had gone by.
When the last rider crossed the tape, the multitude stirred to go. "We better stand right here, Hannah, till some of these folks gets away," he said. So they stood perfectly still and let the crowd surge around them.
Then a great huzza went up, the track cleared again, as if by magic, and down the course came a dozen men, shouting in unrestrained joy. Aloft on their shoulders they held—the old people craned their necks to see—yes, Jack—their Jack—looking sheepish and very much ashamed.
"Why, Mother," the old man cried, "he's won! Our Jack's won the race! Do you hear?"
Mother's eyes were fixed on the black and orange sweater, for Jack was once again in regulation bicycle attire, and her heart was too full to trust itself for speech.
"Three cheers for Gardner! 'Rah for the South Shore Club!" and the great field swelled and swelled again with bursts of applause. And then—the crowd parted some way and Jack saw those pathetic faces upturned to him.
It is said that when a man is drowning, in the flash of a second his whole previous life passes in review. Something like this came to him at the crowning moment of his twenty-three years.