“But why 'poor'?” enquired the M.P.P.
“Oh, well,” answered Mrs. Freeman with hesitation, “you see she is so very plain—and—well, not like other girls. But she is a good worker and has a kind heart.”
Once more the runners face the starter, La Belle gay, alert, confident; Cameron silent, pale, and grim.
“All set? Go!” La Belle is away ere the word is spoken. The bell, however, brings him back, wrathful and less confident.
Once more they stand crouching over the scratch. Once more the word releases them like shafts from the bow. A beautiful start, La Belle again in the lead, but Cameron hard at his heels and evidently with something to spare. Thus for fifty yards, sixty, yes, sixty-five.
“La Belle! La Belle! He wins! He wins!” yell his backers frantically, the thin-faced man dancing madly near the finishing tape. Twenty yards to go and still La Belle is in the lead. High above the shouting rises Mack's roar.
“Now, Cameron! For the life of you!”
It was as if his voice had touched a spring somewhere in Cameron's anatomy. A great leap brings him even with La Belle. Another, another, and still another, and he breasts the tape a winner by a yard, time ten and three fifths seconds. The Maplehill folk go mad, and madder than all Isa and her company of girl friends.
“I got—one—bad—start—me! He—pull—me back!” panted La Belle to his backers who were holding him up.
“Who pulled you back?” indignantly cried the thin-faced man, looking for blood.