The Broadwood runner had tried to crowd past Goodyear at the second turn, but that youth had been watching, and as they settled into the stretch, the order remained unchanged. Half way along, Dunn began to drop behind, and at the third corner it was Gerald, Goodyear, and Stewart well bunched, with Norcross and Webster fighting for honors twenty yards back, Dunn steadily losing ground, and Maury, evidently in some distress, a good forty yards behind the leaders. Into the home-stretch they came, Gerald still apparently running strong. Near the finish mark he increased his pace, and left several yards between him and Goodyear. At the same moment Stewart found his chance, and crossed into second place. The gong clanged, announcing the beginning of the last lap, and the shouting from the stand and from the audience along the edge of the field, was deafening.
“Good work, Pennimore! Keep it up!”
“Go it, Stewart! Go it, Broadwood!”
“Maury! Maury! Come on, Maury! Close up there, Maury!”
“Eat ’em up, Goodyear! Come on, Norcross!”
“Yardley! Yardley! Yardley!”
“Broadwood! Broadwood! Broadwood!”
And through it all the band played doggedly on.
Goodyear had sprung after Stewart, and was hanging to him closely at the first turn. Between Gerald and Stewart lay some four or five yards of cinders. Gerald had been told to keep the lead as long as he could, and he was doing it. As a matter of fact, he still felt strong and was breathing better than during the first or second laps. He looked around on the next turn, and a puzzled frown came into his forehead. Why was Maury away back there? He could never win in the wide world unless he performed a miracle of sprinting! Well, orders were orders. He would keep the lead while he could, and then the others must do their best. He was still running strong and prettily at the beginning of the backstretch, still holding his four-yard lead against Stewart. Webster had headed Norcross, while far behind came Maury, fast losing form and evidently holding on by sheer pluck. Maury was run out!