“I am sorry I can’t see it your way, old man,” he answered finally in not an unkind voice; then the indignation he felt for Lazar blazed from his eyes.
“You may tell Mr. Lazar I shall run to win.”
“Bully for you, Phil,” cried Sydney delightedly. He had listened intently in silence, and was afraid he might be influenced by the plausible arguments of his tempter. “I’d be willing to have the ship lose to see you beat him.”
The preliminary heats were run amid great enthusiasm.
Lazar and Phil, with eight others, found themselves at the starting line for the final test.
Phil, in spite of the tax on his strength in his hard fought races, never felt in better trim. The earlier races assured him that his muscles had not deteriorated. As he stood with his body thrown forward, hands on the ground in front of him, he vibrated like a highly tempered spring. Every muscle was held in the leash, ready to be loosed by his will at the discharge of the pistol. He wished that he might be transformed into a knight of older times, horsed and about to “enter the lists” with his antagonist. How he would delight to see Lazar’s pride unhorsed beneath his charger’s feet.
With these mad thoughts coursing through his brain he heard, as if from far away, the starter’s voice:
“Are you ready?”
“On your mark!”
Then a pause, followed by a loud report.