And, indeed, he looked very bad. But he was ahead of Kennedy. That was
the great thing.
He had passed the stone by thirty yards, when the cheering broke out
again. Kennedy this time, in great straits, but in better shape than
Crake. Dencroft's in a body trotted along at the side of the road,
shouting as they went. Crake, hearing the shouts, looked round, almost
fell, and then pulled himself together and staggered on again. There
were only a hundred yards to go now, and the school gates were in
sight at the end of a long lane of spectators. They looked to Kennedy
like two thick, black hedges. He could not sprint, though a hundred
voices were shouting to him to do so. It was as much as he could do to
keep moving. Only his will enabled him to run now. He meant to get to
the gates, if he had to crawl.
The hundred yards dwindled to fifty, and he had diminished Crake's
lead by a third. Twenty yards from the gates, and he was only
half-a-dozen yards behind.
Crake looked round again, and this time did what he had nearly done
before. His legs gave way; he rolled over; and there he remained, with
the School House watching him in silent dismay, while Kennedy went on
and pitched in a heap on the other side of the gates.
* * * * *
"Feeling bad?" said Jimmy Silver, looking in that evening to make
inquiries.
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