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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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“Ow,” said Andrew, still panting, “muscles in my thighs.” He got up and limped about. His legs felt absurd. The muscles in his haunches hurt abominably.
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Redbrooke smiled. “I know that feeling,” he said, “comes of running untrained!”
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“Oh, I had trained a bit,” said Andrew, “a fair amount really. Do you know what the time was?”
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“One fifty-nine and two fifths,” Redbrooke told him. “I was just inside two minutes. I must say I think we did fairly well for the first effort of the season.”
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“One fifty-nine and two fifths,” said Andrew, “was it really?”
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One of the judges joined them.
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Others came up. They all said the same.
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“Why on earth didn’t you sprint before?”
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