A feeble attempt at applause marked his passage in front of the grandstand; but he never looked up, and for any indication he gave to the contrary, he might have been the only person on the grounds. His track suit was hidden by a long black door curtain, in lieu of a bath-robe, 386 and a pretty girl on the front row remarked audibly, “He’s all ready for the funeral.”
“Sure thing,” answered her companion. “He knows his obsequies are about to take place.”
“Peels well,” a man by the rail critically commented. “But––rats!––Richards has pocketed this event ever since he’s been here; you can’t make the pace for him with anything slower than an auto.”
The runners were in line at last, crouching low, tense, finger-tips upon the ground, the starting-pistol above their heads.
“Starters ready?” floated in a sing-song voice from the judges’ stand. “Timers r-r-read-y-y?” A sharp crack from the pistol, and they were off.
Then a queer thing happened. Instead of dawdling along behind, as every one expected, Chester, without an instant’s hesitation, pushed to the front and set the pace.
And what a pace! It was literally a race from the word go. Chester took the inside and faced the music, Richards and the others close in behind. Sympathy in the grandstand was 387 beginning to turn; everybody appreciates pluck. The spectators, however, knew him to be a novice, and many supposed that he had lost his head; so when he passed the grandstand on the first lap, any amount of contradictory advice was shouted noisily.
“Let them set the pace!” “You’re killing yourself!” “Oh, you bally Lord!––go it, kid!” “Don’t let ’em nose you out, Chester, old scout!” “Save your air, old top, you’ll need it!” and much more of a like kind was hurled at him, which reached his ears through the veil of singing wind, like the roar of distant breakers upon the seashore.
He kept his own counsel. He had followed that pace every day during the last two weeks of his training, and he knew precisely what he could do. Besides the air was quiet, and the disadvantage of being pace-maker was not so great as people thought.
In this formation they came round the half-mile oval the second time, each man working with the nice regularity of well-oiled machinery. Not a sound now from the grandstand; only the soft pat of the runners’ feet could be heard. 388 The crowd had caught Chester’s idea: but could he hold out?