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Andrew saw the other half milers were trotting round the track. Occasionally one would shoot forward in a muscle-stretching burst. Andrew tried a high-stepping trot across the grass to flex his own legs, but was too self-conscious to keep it up.
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He reached the starting point first. Another agonizing wait followed. The others were still capering round the ash path. Would he never get it over? Surely the tension of nerves must rack the strength from his limbs? At last the starter approached.
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“Jolly day for a trial spin,” he told Andrew. “Makes me feel an old fool to be out of it. I envy you boys.”
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Andrew felt too miserable to answer. He nodded.
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“If you want a place,” said a starter, “take my advice and watch Redbrooke. He’ll probably try and take Brewster off his legs early—he knows he can’t sprint, you see.”
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Andrew nodded again. Of course it was a foregone conclusion that only Redbrooke and Brewster were in the race. No one had a thought for him.
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The others began to arrive. Andrew stripped off his sweater. Again he was premature. The others waited. All were silent now.
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Redbrooke was strolling across the ground with one of the officials. He looked up and broke into a brisk trot.
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The air still freshened Andrew’s face. Across the ground he could hear the murmur of the crowd. A paper boy was shouting.
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Still none of the runners spoke. In silence, one by one, they took off blazers and sweaters. The well-known colors of Brewster’s club appeared—a red and black band round the chest. Redbrooke cantered up unconcerned.
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“Sorry,” he said, and emerged from his blazer in Achilles Club colors. Andrew glanced at his plain white things, longer and tighter than Redbrooke’s.
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The runners eyed each other as they took their places on the track. Redbrooke was a shade taller than Andrew and perfectly formed. His corn-colored hair was a disheveled crop, paler in hue than the tan of his face. His limbs flashed with youth and strength. His poise was quick as flame.
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No wonder he can run, thought Andrew. He must win.
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“I shall say on your marks—set—and then fire.”
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At last, thought Andrew. His heart was beating in his throat now.
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A second toiled by.
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Andrew dropped to his knee for a sprinting start.
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“Set!”
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His knee quivered up from the track. It was toes and knuckles now, a balance quivering with tautness.
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Crash.
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Scurry. Shoulders jostling. Mind out.
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Andrew shot clear, going at top speed. He swung into the inside place. So far so good. He’d got his inside place, and the lead too. Was he to make the running? He settled down to a stride, fast but easy.
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He breathed calmly through his nose. Although the race had started he still felt very nervous—an exhilarating nervousness now. He saw each blade of grass where out turf edge met track. A groundsman set down a whitewash pail.
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Andrew realized he was cutting out too fast a pace. He swung into a slower stride. So far all had gone according to plan, and he began to take courage.
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As they approached the pavilion for the first time and the second long corner of the race, he found Perry was creeping up on his outside. Andrew was surprised and a little worried. In all the half miles he had run before the pace he had set would have assured him the lead. He decided to make no effort, and Perry passed stride by stride and dropped into the lead. Andrew continued at his own pace, and a gap of a yard or two opened.
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