“But Sullivan and Stevie and the rest of them might drop—used up! Ha, that’s good! Imagine me a quarter-mile champion! It’s too strange to think of.”
“Strange things, Dickie. There, that’s for you.”
In the line of starters Dickie was second from the pole. Big Keswick was inside him, Stevenson outside, and Sullivan second outside Stevenson. Dickie at once made himself acquainted with Keswick’s tactics. One or two false starts convinced him that Keswick’s right elbow was intended for a prominent part in the contest. Dickie knew that Keswick expected to have it all his own way when it came to close quarters. But there was a way. Dickie had no notion of letting Keswick’s cruel elbow rob him of the pole. There was always a way to deal with such tactics.
“Starters ready?”
“Ready!”
“Timers ready?”
“Ready—ready, all ready!”
“Get on your marks. Set—stea-a-d-d-y. Come up. Man at the pole, be careful. Now—on your marks. Get set—”
Bang! Dickie promptly caught the hook of Keswick’s plunging right elbow in the angle of his own left. Keswick was spun half-round and Dickie shot in. “That for Kessie!” muttered Dickie. The judges saw it, but it raised only a smile all round and an appreciative comment from one. “That big fellow tried it that time, didn’t he? An old trick of his, Ludwig says, but the little fellow was too clever.”