I did feel an ass.
III.
Beefy, however, was keeping the flag flying. He saw Ginger, but paid no attention to him. His eye was on Corporal Jason, the leading man of the other company, and a magnificent harrier. This fellow had to be beaten at all costs. He was not ‘all out’—his pace was too steady; so Beefy plugged a couple of yards behind him. For four miles this went on, and all the while Ginger ambled as easily as a deer. He was one of those who are natural athletes, and who do not need to train. Nature endows them with amazing reserve-power. All the time Ginger was studying the bulldog tenacity of Beefy—the steady plod, the quick eye and brain following Corporal Jason’s every move. It was like dog tracking dog; and yet it wasn’t. Above the cunning byplay was the soul of esprit de corps. Both were out to win. And both meant to.
They reached a wide stretch of pasture-land. Jason stretched himself and pushed on. Beefy followed, a little blown, yet able to hold. The supreme test was near. Ginger saw Beefy clench his jaws, raise his head, and point out the toes to get the fullest stride on the green-sward. Jason was undoubtedly the better man, but there was that something which kept his rival fighting on.
Ginger commenced to admire Beefy.
At last they reached the open track near the camp. Ahead was the winning-post. There an excited crowd had gathered, including Captain Bloggs, who was fearfully anxious as he watched the struggle between Jason and Beefy.
‘Go on, Jason!’
‘Stick it, Beefy!’
These cries rent the air, and for a second threw Beefy off guard. Jason made a terrific spurt. With an almost superhuman effort Beefy recovered and levelled up. Close behind was that amazing devil, Ginger, ambling easily. Somehow, no one counted Ginger as being in the piece. He simply looked like a runner-up—nothing more.
‘Hell for leather, Jason!’