Calvert was sure to be
ahead at the beginning--but after that!

"On your marks.

"Set."

The pistol cracked. The start was perfect; the five men leaped forward
almost exactly together. For once Calvert had not beaten the others off
the mark, but he immediately drew ahead. He was running powerfully, his
legs rising and falling in exact rhythm, his spikes tearing into the
cinder path. But Hugh and Murphy were pressing him close. At the end of
the first hundred Calvert led by a yard. Hugh pounded on, Murphy falling
behind him. The others were hopelessly outclassed. Hugh did not think;
he did not hear a thousand men shouting hysterically, "Carver! Carver!"
He saw nothing but Calvert a yard ahead of him. He knew nothing but that
he had to make up that yard. Down the track they sped, their breath
bursting from them, their hands clenched, their faces grotesquely
distorted, their legs driving them splendidly on.

Hugh was gaining; that yard was closing. He sensed it rather than saw
it. He saw nothing now, not even Calvert. Blinded with effort, his lungs
aching, his heart pounding terribly, he fought on, mechanically keeping
between the two white lines. Ten yards from the tape he was almost
abreast of Calvert. He saw the tape through a red haze; he made a final
valiant leap for it--but he never touched it: Calvert's chest had
broken it a tiny fraction of a second before.

Hugh almost collapsed after the race. Two men caught him and carried
him, despite his protests, to the dressing-room. At first he was aware
only of his overwhelming weariness. Something very important had
happened. It was over, and he was tired, infinitely tired. A rub-down
refreshed his muscles, but his spirit remained weary. For a month he had
thought of nothing but that race--even Cynthia had become strangely
insignificant in comparison with it--and now that the race had been run
and lost, his whole spirit sagged and drooped.

He was pounded on the back; his hand was grasped and shaken until it
ached; he was cheered to an echo by the thrilled Sanford men; but still
his depression remained. He had won his letter, he had run a magnificent
race, all Sanford sang his praise--Norry Parker had actually cried with
excitement and delight--but he felt that he had failed; he had not
justified himself.

A few days later he entered Henley's office, intending to make only a
brief visit. Henley congratulated him. "You were wonderful, Hugh," he
said enthusiastical