ace. The trainers, with their
cans in their hands, ran backward and forward over the grass, meeting
their men at certain points, and eying them narrowly, in silence. The
official persons stood together in a group; their eyes following the
runners round and round with the closest attention. The trainer's
doctor, still attached to his illustrious colleague, offered the
necessary explanations to Mr. Speedwell and his friend.

"Nothing much to see for the first mile, Sir, except the 'style' of the
two men."

"You mean they are not really exerting themselves yet?"

"No. Getting their wind, and feeling their legs. Pretty runner,
Fleetwood--if you notice Sir? Gets his legs a trifle better in front,
and hardly lifts his heels quite so high as our man. His action's the
best of the two; I grant that. But just look, as they come by, which
keeps the straightest line. There's where Delamayn has him! It's a
steadier, stronger, truer pace; and you'll see it tell when they're
half-way through." So, for the first three rounds, the doctor expatiated
on the two contrasted "styles"--in terms mercifully adapted to the
comprehension of persons unacquainted with the language of the running
ring.

At the fourth round--in other words, at the round which completed the
first mile, the first change in the relative position of the runners
occurred. Delamayn suddenly dashed to the front. Fleetwood smiled as the
other passed him. Delamayn held the lead till they were half way through
the fifth round--when Fleetwood, at a hint from his trainer, forced the
pace. He lightly passed Delamayn in an instant; and led again to the
completion of the sixth round.

At the opening of the seventh, Delamayn forced the pace on his side. For
a few moments, they ran exactly abreast. Then Delamayn drew away inch
by inch; and recovered the lead. The first burst of applause (led by the
south) rang out, as the big man beat Fleetwood at his own tactics, and
headed him at the critical moment when the race was nearly half run.

"It begins to look as if Delamayn _was_ going to win!" said Sir Patrick.

The trainer's doctor forgot himself. Infected by the rising excitement
of every body about him, he let out the truth.

"Wait a bit!" he said. "Fleetwood has got directions to let him
pass--Fleetwood is waiting to see what he can do."

"Cunning, you see, Sir Patrick, is one of the elements in a manly
sport," said Mr. Speedwell, quietly.

At the end of the seventh roun