Once around that first turn, Allan shot a glance over his shoulder and his heart leaped. Unless he was very much mistaken, Burns had lost ground. That was Allan’s last turn of the head. From that time on it was merely a question of hugging the rim of the track and enduring the ache of limb and chest, doubting all the while his ability to hold his place and all the while determining to do it.
He was right about Burns. That redoubtable runner had gone to pieces all in the minute. At the second turn he was plainly no longer dangerous to Allan, and back at the finish the throng roared its relief and delight. And while it was still shouting, Tammen shot around Burns and began to lessen the dozen or so yards between him and Allan. And Allan, hearing vaguely a new note in the voices across the field and the rapid pat of steps on the track behind him, guessed what was up and felt his heart sink. Here was a man who could sprint, something Allan had never been able to do satisfactorily, and here, in all probability, was the winner of the race! Those gazing obliquely across the oval saw Allan falter for a stride just at the farther turn, and their hearts sank.
But after that first instant of what was something like terror, Allan pulled himself together. In his own words, it was up to him to win, and win he would, if only his breath would last that long. Tammen, three yards behind him, made no attempt to pass him at the turns, but kept himself in hand for the home-stretch. And Allan, grim and determined, weakening with every long gasp for breath, knew that when the track stretched straight before him to the distant white line the battle would really begin, and that in the length of that distance the meeting would be won or lost.
And then he finished the turn and the rim ran straight beside him. And then the pat, pat behind him crept nearer and nearer. Presently, when the stretch was half run, Allan was conscious, without looking—for he dared not take his eyes from the track ahead—of something grayish-white at his elbow.
The time had come to do the impossible, to spur his weary limbs into renewed effort, to force his panting lungs to greater exertion, and to keep that grayish blur where it was. To have thrown himself—nay, to have simply let himself drop onto the grass beside the track and troubled no more about anything, would have been at that moment the greatest pleasure of a lifetime. But along the track voices were roaring and shrieking, and, although the words were sounds only, the meaning of them he knew. They wanted him to win, and the desire found a new echo in his heart. He wanted to win, and—why, yes, he would win!
And now the white line was in plain sight, although he didn’t see it, and the roar of voices was rising and growing. For a moment it seemed to him that he was motionless, and that the dark ranks on either side were moving slowly past him. And at the moment a glimpse of whitish-gray at his right dispelled the illusion, and with a sob for breath, he forced himself on. Once in that remaining twenty yards he staggered, and the watchers held their breaths for fear, but he recovered himself and plunged, reeling, on—and on—and on. Was there no end to it? he wondered, in agony. The haunting blur beside him was gone now, and——
“Hold up! Easy, man, easy!” cried a voice that he seemed to know, and then dozens of arms were clutching him, and he let himself go. And as his eyes closed a whitish form passed before them and dropped from sight. Tammen, plucky to the last, was being lifted from the track, where, defeated and exhausted, he had fallen. And Allan, with closed eyes and tortured lungs, felt himself being carried to the tent, while in his ears was a roar of sound that told of victory and a race well run.