“Ashley’s to cut out the running for Willoughby this time,” says Telson, “and he’ll do it too; he’s fresh.”
So he is. At the signal to start he rushes off as if the race was a quarter of a mile instead of a mile, and the Londoner, perplexed by his tactics, starts hard also, intending to keep him in hand. Bloomfield and Wyndham, one on each side of the track, began rather more easily, and during the first lap allow themselves to drop twelve or fifteen yards behind. The Londoner quickly takes in the situation, but evidently doesn’t quite know whether to keep up to Ashley or lie up like the others. If he does the latter, the chances are the fresh man may get ahead beyond catching, and possibly win the race; and if he does the former—well, has he the wind to hold out when the other two begin to “put it on”? He thinks he has, so he keeps close up to Ashley.
The cheers, of course, all round the field are tremendous, and nowhere more exciting than where Telson and Parson are located. As the runners pass them at the end of the first lap the excitement of these youths breaks forth into terrific shouts.
“Well run, Ashley; keep it up! He’s blowing! Put it on there, Wyndham; now’s your time, Bloomfield!” And before the cries have left their lips the procession has passed, and the second lap has begun.
Towards the end of the second lap Ashley shows signs of flagging, and Bloomfield is quickening his pace.
“Huzza!” yells Parson; “Bloomfield’s going to take it up now. Jolly well-planned cut-out, eh, Telson?”
“Rather!” shrieks Telson. “Here they come! Whiskers is ahead. Now, Willoughby—well run indeed! Lam it on, Bloomfield, you’re gaining. Keep it up, Ashley. Now, Wyndham; now!”
Ashley drops gradually to the rear, and before the final lap is half over has retired from the race, covered with glory for his useful piece of work. But anxious eyes are turned to the other three. The Londoner holds his own, and Bloomfield’s rush up seems to have come to nothing. About a quarter of a mile from home an ominous silence drops upon the crowd, and for a few moments Willoughby is too disheartened to cheer. Then at last there rises a single wild cheer somewhere. What is it? The positions are still the same, and— No! Both Wyndham and Bloomfield are gaining; and as the discovery is made there goes up such a shout that the rooks in the elms start away from their nests in a panic.
Never was seen such a gallant spurt in that old meadow. Foot by foot the two Willoughby boys pull up and lessen the hateful distance which divides them from the leader. He of course sees his danger, and answers spurt for spurt. For a few yards he neither gains nor loses, then, joyful sight, he loses!
“Look at them now!” cries Telson, as they approach—“look at them both. They’re both going to win! Ah, well run, Willoughby—splendidly run; you’re going like mad—keep it up! Huzzah! level. Keep it up! Wyndham’s ahead; so’s Bloomfield. Both ahead! Well run both. Keep it up now. Hurrah!”