“Do you see who it is, Tom?” he cried.
“No, but he’s a little cuss. Say, it isn’t——”
“Yes, it is, it’s Gerald!”
“Get out!” gasped Alf.
“It is, though, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Gerald for a dollar!” cried Tom delightedly. “And he will get him yet!”
“The plucky little beggar!” exclaimed Alf. “Can he do it? Think of the race depending on him, Dan! Wouldn’t that jar you? Is he gaining?”
“I—I don’t believe so,” muttered Dan anxiously. “He cut down a lot, but he’s just about holding his place now. He runs well, too, and looks fresher than the other chap. Oh, gee, Alf, why doesn’t he try harder?”
A groan went up from the Yardley watchers, for the Broadwood runner had suddenly sprung away and now a good four or five yards separated him from Gerald, and the finish was almost at hand.
After that first attempt to leave Hiltz behind Gerald had subsided into a pace that kept him just at the other’s heels. There was time enough yet, for it was evident that Hiltz was fast getting weary. And then, a minute or two later, Arthur Thompson drew up to them, passed them and went ahead, running at a good speed but looking pretty white of face save where a flaming disk of crimson burned on each cheek. Gerald saw his opportunity and seized it. He sprang forward, passed Hiltz and fell in behind Arthur, letting the latter make pace for him. Hiltz made one despairing effort to follow and then gave up the struggle, trotting along for a minute more and finally subsiding to a walk as the two others left him behind.