But our eyes were on Carl and Beckner. They were having it out, and as the turn began Carl crept up to the blue runner and tried to edge past; but he couldn’t quite do it, and Beckner held the lead by a few feet until they were in the straightaway and headed for the finish. Then Carl actually got in front. A lot of us had gone halfway down the track to meet them and were yelling ourselves hoarse.
“Come on, Carl! Come on! You can do it!”
The Maynard fellows were shouting to Beckner at the top of their lungs. Carl was just about holding his lead, when suddenly he staggered, got one foot on the raised board that runs along the inside of the track, and fell on the cinders. He was up in a second and running again, but he had lost three or four yards, was limping and was plainly exhausted. And Beckner, none too fresh himself, came on down the home stretch all alone, wabbling a bit, but apparently an easy winner.
“Look at Bobby!” cried John. “Oh, look at Bobby!”
How he ever got there I don’t know, but there was that blessed Bobby coming along only a few yards behind Beckner and gaining on him at every stride. Now he had passed Carl; now he was almost up to the Maynard man; and we were racing alongside, leaping and shouting, while twenty yards ahead at the finish the judges were leaning forward with excited faces and their fingers on the “stops.”
Stride by stride Bobby overhauled Beckner. Now he could have touched him with his hand. Now he was running even. Now—
“Preston!” we cried. “Preston! Preston!”
And then there was the finish—Bobby flying down the turn and Beckner falling into the arms of his fellows.
“Who won?” I shouted, dancing about in the crowd.
“Hart, by two feet!” said some one.