Tempest but hold out
these few yards, we were safe. He would! No! Yes! No, they're all
but level another six yards. Then suddenly we saw Tempest fling his
hand behind and reel forward with a blind stagger over the tape, and as
the simultaneous report proclaimed a dead heat, fall sprawling and
helpless on the ground.

The cheers died on our lips, for it was surely something more than
exhaustion or broken wind. Redwood was beside him in a moment, and drew
his head on his knee. It was a dead faint--not from fatigue, but from
pain.

His burned and blistered hand, which he had so carefully concealed from
everybody, and of which he had made so little, betrayed the secret
plainly enough.

For once his pride and determination had overrated his physical
strength. He had calculated on just being able to win the race. All he
had done was just to save it, at a price which, as it turned out, was to
cost him weeks of illness, and even threaten the loss of a hand.

The news of his calamity spread like wildfire, and put an end, as far as
I at least was concerned, to the sports for the day.

We heard later in the day that he was in the Sanatorium in a high fever.
Next day he was delirious, and the notice on the board told us that the
doctor considered his condition dangerous. The next day, his old
grandfather, the only relative he had, came down, and the next, summoned
by my urgent message, my dear mother. Then for a day or two we were
kept in suspense, till one happy afternoon the bulletin reported a
change for the better, and presently the welcome news came that all
danger was past.

For me at least that was the happiest day of my life, except perhaps
that a week later when my mother as a special privilege allowed me to
see him for a moment.

He was sitting up in bed, smiling but pale.

"Tell me," he said, "I've never heard yet, did I win the Mile?"

"Dead heat," said I.

"What time?"

"Four four and a half."

"A record, isn't it? It was worth the grind."

I had my doubts, but knew better than to say so.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A GOOD SHOW-UP ALL ROUND.

It was the last day but one of the Summer term, and the Philosophers
were in a ferment. The lists were to be out in the afternoon, and a
score of events were to be decided by them. Was I to get on to the top
form of my division, and if so, was it Langrish or Purkis who was to be
displaced? Or was I, after all my grind, to yield a place to the
tr