“Not necessarily,” began Tom. But just then a shout went up and the crowd moved forward again. Far up the road trotted a single runner and Yardley sighed her relief, for his shirt shone white in the sunlight. A moment later a second runner appeared, a dark-shirted youth who, in spite of the distance between him and the man in front, seemed determined to overtake him.
“But he can’t do it,” whispered Dan half aloud. “Our chap’s got too much lead. Why, that’s Thompson, Alf.”
“So it is. Good for him! Come on, you Thompson. Never mind about looking back. Hit it up!”
But Arthur was still too far away to hear this advice. The Broadwood runner was gaining in a way that would have elicited warm admiration from the trio at any other time. Arthur was plainly on his last legs. Twenty yards from the line he stumbled, recovered himself and came on, only to fall in a heap finally in the middle of the road some ten yards from the finish.
[CHAPTER XI]
BY ONE POINT
“Don’t touch him!” was the cry as sympathetic friends rushed to Arthur’s assistance. “Let him alone! Let him finish! Come on, Thompson! You can do it! Here he comes!”
Broadwood was yelling madly, encouragingly to her plucky runner, who, seeing his adversary’s plight, was making one final effort to wrest the victory from him. But he was still yards behind when Arthur found his feet unsteadily, cast a look to the rear, and limped, swaying and clutching, toward the finish. Once across it he sprawled face down in the road before willing arms could reach him, and the Broadwood runner, crossing the line the next instant, stumbled over him and measured his length, too, on the ground.
“Bully work!” commented Alf, his pen busy again. “That gives us tenth place and Broadwood eleventh. Say, this is getting rather too close to be interesting. What we need is two more runners just about now, before Broadwood finishes her last man.”