“Hm! I saw he was down on the card as Rindgely, but I thought maybe it was a mistake. What does the other man, Ware, look like?”
“He’s here somewhere,” said Harris. And then his voice dropped and Allan, looking carefully away, felt the inspector’s gaze upon his face. He wondered what it might mean and why Rindgely had been mistaken for him, but his speculation was short-lived, for at that moment the pistol cracked and two runners, one with his white shirt crossed with a brown silk ribbon and the other bearing a purple E on his breast, sprang forward and fought for the lead at the first turn. The Erskine man was Thatcher and his opponent was named Guild. As they reached the other end of the track and sped past the dressing-room, conflicting shouts of encouragement from Erskine and Robinson supporters followed them.
Thatcher had secured the pole at the start and had leaped into the lead at the turn. He was still ahead, but Guild was close behind him, his long strides seeming to be always on the point of taking him past, yet never doing so. Thatcher’s plan was plainly to hand over the race to the next runner of his team with a good, big margin of gain, trusting that, if unable to increase the advantage, the other Erskine men would at least hold what they had. But the big gain wasn’t forthcoming yet.
As he neared the starting-point and the finish of the first of his two laps he strove desperately to leave his opponent, but it was not until the last lap was a third run that daylight opened up between the two. The Robinson chap was proving himself a worthy foe. Half-way around the last lap there was ten feet between Purple and Brown. From there on down to the mark, where the next two men stood with eager, outstretched hands, Thatcher gained and gained; but he had commenced late, and when Guild touched the hand of his team-mate and fell over into the arms of the Robinson trainer he was only fifteen yards to the bad.
Gibbons, short of leg and rather heavy of build, was flying over the first turn as though possessed, and behind him pattered Thorpe of Robinson. Down the stretch they flew, while the band was drowned by the shouts of the onlookers. It was a pretty contest that, even though to discerning ones, at least, the end was not in doubt. Gibbons looked like a small whirlwind, and gave every indication of killing himself before the second lap was finished, but Thorpe, with long and easy strides, ate up the interval between them foot by foot, and when the second lap began was in position to take the lead whenever he wanted to.
Half-way down the side he did so. Gibbons fought him off desperately for an instant, but at the turn Robinson led by a yard. Then it was that Gibbons surprised even his trainer, for, instead of steadily dropping back, he refused to yield an inch and chased Thorpe down to the finish like an avenging fate, crossing the line a bare yard behind him.
That yard of advantage was five yards half through the next lap, Tolmann failing to prove a match for Brine of Robinson. Foot after foot and yard after yard opened up between them, and when the last lap began the Brown’s runner was an eighth of a lap ahead.
“Well, that’s settled right now,” said Long, who had jostled his way to Allan’s side. “If we still had Thatcher we might stand some show, but I guess Poor can’t cut down that lead enough to make it look even close.”
“Thatcher’s idea was all right,” said Allan, “but he didn’t know how good his man was. Robinson’s next man is her captain, I think, and I suppose he ought to be the best of the lot.”
“He ought to be, but maybe he isn’t. Poor is a plucky little chap, and maybe he’ll give Jones a run for his money. Look at him!”