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But even now he must quicken up if he was to hold Redbrooke. At each step Redbrooke’s back was leaving him. He struggled to lengthen but it was useless. Redbrooke was moving up to the front. Now he was equal with Brewster;now with Perry; now he was in the lead.
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How easy Redbrooke’s move down the back straight looked from the grand stand. “Pretty running,” people told each other. “Just the place to come up.” “Nicely judged.” “See how he worked himself through from the last corner.”
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And this was the very place at which Andrew had meant to move up himself. He remembered nothing of his plans now. It was impossible to increase his effort. One of the men behind came smoothly by and dropped into the gap that Redbrooke had left in front of him. The sixth man came up on his outside. There was a kind of emptiness at his back. He was running equal last.
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Now they came into the final curve before the finishing straight. His legs seemed powerless. He grunted for breath. The weakness in his thighs had grown to a cramping pain. And all the time with dull despair he saw Redbrooke going up, now five yards clear, now eight. Perry had dropped back to third, and Brewster was chasing Redbrooke.
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Dark waves of pain swept over Andrew. Hopeless. Hopeless.
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Still he must keep running with control. He must force his legs to a smooth long stride. This was the worst part of any race; nightmare moments, when the only hope was a last frenzied dash, yet still the body must be forced along with conscious control.
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“Come on,” he told himself, “another fifty yards—guts, man—guts.”
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Had only Andrew known what the others were feeling, he would have taken courage. The whole pace of the first quarter, thanks to Andrew’s own excitement, had been faster than anyone cared for. Redbrooke, untrained as he was, had found himself badly winded at the quarter-mile mark. He, too, doubted whether he could have any punch left at the finish. He determined, therefore, to make a surprise effort early, when he still had a powerful sprint in him. As soon as they came into the curve, he stepped on the gas as hard as he could, three hundred yards from home, and steamed away. He jumped a lead of five, eight, ten yards before Perry or Brewster realized what was happening. It was a thing the crowd could follow better than the men in the race.
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Now as they came into the straight, Andrew thought Redbrooke was gathering himself for a final dash. Far from it; he was hanging on for grim death. His sparkling effort had died right away. His stride was nerveless. The sprinting muscles in his thighs had lost every ounce of their power. He was struggling and asking himself at every stride: “Can I, can I, can I—surely those steps are drawing nearer—can I last it?”
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Perry was desperately run out. Brewster had already been chasing Redbrooke hard for the last thirty yards, but could not find any pace at all.
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Andrew alone of the field had he known it had been nursing his remnant of strength round that grueling bend. Only forty yards to go now and he could throw all he had into a last desperate effort. Keep it up just a moment more. Thirty yards to the straight now—twenty—suddenly his control was shattered. He was fighting in a mindless fury of effort for every ounce of strength in him.
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In ten yards he saw his whole fortune in the race change. He had got a sprint then!The man on his outside vanished. He raced round the outside of the fellow in front hand over fist as he came into the straight. In another few yards he had the faltering Perry taped.
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He had already run into third place. New strength surged through his limbs. “Come on, come on: up, you can catch Brewster. Level. Feel him struggling. He can’t hold you. Got him!”
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Far, far off, a distant frenzied pain, somewhere: someone else’s pain. Miles away a face on the side of the track.
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Second now. Second, and he could catch Redbrooke. But could he catch him in time? They were past the start of the hundred yards now: a bare hundred to go. Could he? Could he? The first brilliance of his sprint had gone. He was fighting again an agonizing weakness that dragged his legs back. But he was doing it, foot by foot. Fists clenched, to force speed-spent muscles.
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Split seconds dragged strange length out. The straight went on and on. Five yards behind, now four, now three.
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Redbrooke heard him, then felt him: two yards behind, now at his shoulder. He racked himself for a new effort. Together they swept past the hundred-yards finish, ten yards from the half-mile tape, with the dull roar of the crowd in their ears. Redbrooke saw he was beaten but stuck to it till the last foot.
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Then Andrew led.
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A splendour of gladness as he watched the stretch of white wool break on his own chest.
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“You’ve done it, you’ve done it!” Incredible precious moment.
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Then he dropped half conscious on the track.
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Strong arms plucked him up, and walked him to the grass.“Well done, very fine finish,” he heard. Down again, sitting now. The world swam round you. There was Redbrooke, standing up, not so done then.
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Ache, how those legs ache and your thigh muscles, too—must stand up, hell, what does it matter though when you won!
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Redbrooke came over to Andrew smiling and controlled.
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“Well done,” he said, “you had me nicely.”
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