“Gee, that’ll be a race!” exclaimed Dan. “Only two of them will get places. By Jove, fellows, one of them’s Gerald. See him?”
“That’s right, and the fellow with him is Hiltz.” Alf chuckled. “Here’s a fine chance for him to get even with Hiltz for queering him with Cambridge last spring. I wonder if he can do it.”
The first of the three, glancing back, eased his pace and finished a good twenty yards ahead, very tired. Gerald Pennimore and Jake Hiltz were struggling gamely for the twelfth place in the race. As they came near Alf gave a whoop.
“Gerald’s got it!” he cried. “Come on, you Geraldine! You’ve got him beat! Dig your spikes, boy! Don’t let up!”
It was a battle royal for a dozen yards at the finish, but [Gerald drew ahead steadily], turning once to look at his adversary, and crossed the line two yards to the good, Alf and Tom and Dan running out to seize him in case he fell.
But Gerald had no idea of falling. Instead he walked off the road, resisting the outstretched arms, and sat down on a rock, looking up a trifle breathlessly but quite smilingly at his solicitous friends.
“I was twelfth, wasn’t I?” he gasped.
“You’re the even dozen, Gerald,” said Dan. “How’d you do it?”
“It wasn’t hard,” answered Gerald. “I could have finished ahead of that fellow Groom if I’d wanted to, but I thought I’d rather have some fun with Hiltz. He was all in long ago.”
This was quite evidently so, for Hiltz was lying on his back struggling for breath, with a friend supporting his head.