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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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As they came on to the bend there was a sudden sputter of feet and Andrew found that Brewster had filled the gap. Others were coming up and he realized that the whole field was moving faster than he was. He quickened up slightly and swung out tentatively to pass Brewster again. Before he could pass, the corner was reached. He at least knew better than to run on the outside round the curve; so he slackened again to pull back into the inside. But in the very thought of doing so, the runner behind closed smoothly and swiftly up to Brewster, and Andrew saw that Redbrooke had got his inside berth. Andrew had to take the curve on the outside. “Blinking fool” he told himself.
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Old Jones and one or two other experienced runners in the crowd caught each other’s eyes for a moment; the rest of the audience had no notion of the little display of bad technique that Andrew had given.
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