‘Hello! the game’s opening,’ I muttered on looking ahead. I was a bit behind, for I had been dreaming. Away in the front was Beefy. He was heavy, but a splendid athlete. His staying-power was good, and he had no nerves. With all his faults, Beefy was a sportsman, and if there was one man consumed with the craving for victory, it was he. I saw a long figure slogging steadily by his side. The style caught my fancy, so I pushed on, and found it was Ginger. Close behind was Billy Greens, the parson, and gently dodging by him was Nobby. Where was Tosher? I looked behind. He was dogging me. I smiled, but inwardly. I was just a bit cut. These men were out for ‘blood.’
I spurted out of my stride, hell for leather, took a good-sized dike, then pushed hard across a wide meadow. It was good going, and my nerves were all out. This was unwise, but I didn’t want Tosher to head me off. On reaching a wood I looked back. He was just behind. With a curse I dashed on, but my foot went plump into a rabbit-hole, and I was violently thrown, wrenching my ankle.
‘Are you hurt, old boy?’ asked Tosher.
‘Yes,’ I grunted.
‘Looks bad. Wait and I’ll get you a bandage.’
He ran to a stream, tore the two arms off his running-shirt, soaked them, came back, and bandaged the now swollen foot.
‘You had better go on now, Tosher. I’ll hobble home.’
‘No, child. I reckon I’ll carry you.’
‘Get off, man. I’ll manage somehow.’
However, it was useless. I was hoisted on his back and carried through the ranks of the grinning stragglers, who shouted, ‘Did ums do it—John Brown?’