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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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“No idea I could,” explained Andrew.
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Brewster joined the group.
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“Well, that’s my last half mile,” he said. “Never had to move so fast in my life before.”
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But he was obviously pleased. He had finished about ten yards behind Redbrooke and must have done about two two or two three.
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Now Andrew began to enjoy himself thoroughly. Gloriously relaxed in mind and body, gloriously contented, he watched the other events. He made new friends. Then he went in and soaked himself in a steaming bath and smoked, shouting to Brewster in the next compartment. Life was very kind.
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He came out on to the ground, chatted with everyone he saw: discussed his race a dozen times: had three or four beers
:spent a few shillings with wild extravagance. He saw, to his amazement, Redbrooke turn out again for the quarter and fight another grueling finish to win by inches in fifty-one and a fifth seconds. Andrew was the first to pat him on the back.
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“Great work,” he said. “How you managed it after that half beats me!”
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“Oh, well,” said Redbrooke, “it loosened me up. Why didn’t you come, lazy devil?”
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