"Guid God! He's spiked him!" roared Andrew in a terrible rage. "The
dirty lump that he is--spiked him just when he was gaun to win, too!"
A howl of execration went up from Sinclair's supporters as he lay and
writhed in agony, while Rundell lay still except for the heaving of his
chest. For one tense moment they lay and the crowd was silent, whilst
each man's heart was almost thumping itself out of place in his body,
stretched upon the rough cinder track.
Then a low murmur broke from the crowd as they saw young Paterson coming
round the track, almost staggering under the strain, but keenly intent
on finishing now that his two formidable opponents were lying helpless.
He had kept running during the last round merely to take the third
prize. Now here was his chance of the coveted Red Hose, and he sprinted
and tore along as fast as he was able, calling up every particle of
effort he could muster, and intent on getting past before the two men
could gather strength to rise.
"Come on, Rob!" roared Andrew Marshall, "get up an' feenish, my wee
cock! Paterson's comin' along, an' he'll win. Get up an' try an' feenish
it!"
Stirred by the warning, Robert tried to rise.
Pages:
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200