They had passed the three-quarter pole on the third lap when a yell went up, and everybody rose excitedly to their feet. Space was growing rapidly between the leaders and those behind; it was now resolved to a duel between the principals.
As they dashed past, the crowd examined them closely, scores of field-glasses being trained upon them like so many guns.
Chester was still erect, his head well back, chest forward, arms working piston-like, close down at his sides, while his long, regular tread was as light and springy as an Indian’s. His jaw was set grimly, but it was manifest that he was still breathing deep and regularly through his nostrils.
It was equally manifest that his opponent was in distress. The last of his strength and determination was dying away in a desperate effort to keep his pace; his face was colorless, eyes staring, his step irregular. Worst of all, his mouth was open, and his chest could be seen to vibrate as he panted.
He heard a voice ... and glanced back.
“By Jove!” muttered the man at the rail, as amazed as though the blue canopy of heaven had suddenly fallen, “Chester’ll take it, I do believe!” And the crowd was beginning to believe the same.
The rivals maintained their relative positions until, on the last lap, the three-quarter pole was once more reached. The two figureheads had dropped out and mounted a fence where they would not be too far away from the finish.