gularity of well-oiled machinery. Not
a sound now from the grandstand; only the soft _pat_ of the runners'
feet could be heard. The crowd had caught Chester's idea: but could
he hold out?

They had passed the three-quarter pole on the third lap when a yell
went up, and everybody rose excitedly to their feet. Space was growing
rapidly between the leaders and those behind; it was now resolved to a
duel between the principals.

As they dashed past, the crowd examined them closely, scores of
field-glasses being trained upon them like so many guns.

Chester was still erect, his head well back, chest forward, arms
working piston-like, close down at his sides, while his long, regular
tread was as light and springy as an Indian's. His jaw was set grimly,
but it was manifest that he was still breathing deep and regularly
through his nostrils.

It was equally manifest that his opponent was in distress. The last of
his strength and determination was dying away in a desperate effort to
keep his pace; his face was colorless, eyes staring, his step
irregular. Worst of all, his mouth was open, and his chest could be
seen to vibrate as he panted.

[Illustration: He heard a voice ... and glanced back.]

"By Jove!" muttered the man at the rail, as amazed as though the blue
canopy of heaven had suddenly fallen, "Chester'll take it, I do
believe!" And the crowd was beginning to believe the same.

The rivals maintained their relative positions until, on the last lap,
the three-quarter pole was once more reached. The two figureheads had
dropped out and mounted a fence where they would not be too far away
from the finish.

Every eye was trained upon the racers, the excitement was tense.
Chester was pounding grimly away; sweat was pouring down his face
until it glistened in the sun; his legs ached as though in a boot of
torture. But he had no thought of allowing Richards to close the gap
between them by an inch. He was counting the _pat-pat-pat!_ of his
feet upon the track. "Seventy-three more, and it's won, old boy," he
muttered. He could hear Richards' every breath. "One, two, three,--"
he counted.

He heard a voice, so broken that the words could hardly be distinguished,
and he glanced back.

"For God's--sake, Chester--hold--up!" gasped Richards. "I--can't
lose--this race--now."

He was a pitiable figure, his white face drawn in lines of pain, his
body swaying uncertainly, as he pressed despairingly on.

For one moment Ches