"Look at him, would you? Did you ever think?" These cries flew in the air blended in a vast shout of astonishment and laughter.
For an instant the whole tragedy was in view. Freddie, desperate, his teeth shining, his face contorted, whirling along in deadly effort, was twenty feet behind the tall form of old Pop, who, dressed only in his—only in his underclothes—gained with each stride. One grand insane moment, and then Pop had hurled himself against the tape—victor!
Freddie, fallen into the arms of some men, struggled with his breath, and at last managed to stammer—
"Say, can't—can't—that old—old—man run!"
Pop, puffing and heaving, could only gasp—"Where's my shoes? Who's got my shoes?"
Later Freddie scrambled panting through the crowd, and held out his hand. "Good man, Pop!" And then he looked up and down the tall, stout form. "Hell! who would think you could run like that?"
The kids were surrounded by a crowd, laughing tempestuously.
"How did you know he could run?"
"Why didn't you give me a line on him?"
"Say—great snakes!—you fellows had a nerve to bet on Pop."