the finish.
But it had been a clear break, and Swallow had caught on.

The pace was heart-breaking; murderous; terrific. Emetic's rider had
taken a chance and lost it; lost it when McGloin caught him. Swallow
was a better stayer; as fast as a sprinter. But if Emetic could not
spread-eagle the field, she could set a pace that would try the stamina
and lungs of Pegasus. And she did. First furlong in thirteen seconds.
Record for the Aqueduct. A record sent flying to flinders. My! that was
going some. Quarter-mile in twenty-four flat. Another record wiped out.
What a pace!

A great cry went up. Could Emetic hold out? Could she stay, after all?
Could she do what she had never done before? Swallow's backers began
to blanch. Why, why was McGloin pressing so hard? Why? why? Emetic must
tire. Must, must, must. Why would McGloin insist on taking that pace? It
was a mistake, a mistake. The race had twisted his brain. The fight for
leadership had biased his judgment. If he was not careful that lean,
hungry-looking horse, with Garrison up, would swing out from the bunch,
fresh, unkilled by pace-following, and beat him to a froth. . . .

There, there! Look at that! Look at that! God! how Garrison is riding!
Riding as he never rode before. Has he come back? Look at him. . . . I
told you so. I told you so. There comes that black fiend across--It's
a foul! No, no. He's clear. He's clear. There he goes. He's clear. He's
slipped the bunch, skinned a leader's nose, jammed against the rail.
Look how he's hugging it! Look! He's hugging McGloin's heels. He's
waiting, waiting. . . . There, there! It's Emetic. See, she's wet from
head to hock. She is, she is! She's tiring; tiring fast. . . . See!
. . . McGloin, McGloin, McGloin! You're riding, boy, riding. Good work.
Snappy work. You've got Emetic dead to rights. You were all right in
following her pace. I knew you were. I knew she would tire. Only two
furlongs--What? What's that? . . . Garrison? That plug Rogue? . . . Oh,
Red, Red! . . . Beat him, Red, beat him! It's only a bluff. He's not in
your class. He can't hang on. . . . Beat him, Red, beat him! Don't let a
has-been put it all over you! . . . Ride, you cripple, ride! . . . What?
Can't you shake him off? . . . Slug him! . . . Watch out! He's trying
for the rail. Crowd him, crowd him! . . . What's the matter with you?
. . . Where's your nerve? You can't shake him off! Beat him down the
stretch! He's fresh. He wasn't the fool to follow