"Let them set the pace!" "You're killing yourself!" "Oh, you bally Lord!--go it, kid!" "Don't let 'em nose you out, Chester, old scout!" "Save your air, old top, you'll need it!" and much more of a like kind was hurled at him, which reached his ears through the veil of singing wind, like the roar of distant breakers upon the seashore. He kept his own counsel. He had followed that pace every day during the last two weeks of his training, and he knew precisely what he could do. Besides the air was quiet, and the disadvantage of being pace-maker was not so great as people thought. In this formation they came round the half-mile oval the second time, each man working with the nice regularity of well-oiled machinery. Not a sound now from the grandstand; only the soft _pat_ of the runners' feet could be heard. The crowd had caught Chester's idea: but could he hold out? They had passed the three-quarter pole on the third lap when a yell went up, and everybody rose excitedly to their feet. Space was growing rapidly between the leaders and those behind; it was now resolved to a duel between the principals. As they dashed past, the crowd examined them closely, scores of field-glasses being trained upon them like so many guns. Chester was still erect, his head well back, chest forward, arms working piston-like, close down at his sides, while his long, regular tread was as light and springy as an Indian's. His jaw was set grimly, but it was manifest that he was still breathing deep and regularly through his nostrils. It was equally manifest that his opponent was in distress. The last of his strength and determination was dying away in a desperate effort to keep his pace; his face was colorless, eyes staring, his step irregular. Worst of all, his mouth was open, and his chest could be seen to vibrate as he panted. [Illustration: He heard a voice ... and glanced back.] "By Jove!" muttered the man at the rail, as amazed as though the blue canopy of heaven had suddenly fallen, "Chester'll take it, I do believe!" And the crowd was beginning to believe the same. The rivals maintained their relative positions until, on the last lap, the three-quarter pole was once more reached. The two figureheads had dropped out and mounted a fence where they would not be too far away from the finish. Every eye was trained upon the racers, the excitement was tense. Chester was pounding grimly away; sweat was pouring down his face until it glistened in the sun; his legs ached as though in a boot of torture. But he had no thought of allowing Richards to close the gap between them by an inch. He was counting the _pat-pat-pat!_ of his feet upon the track. "Seventy-three more, and it's won, old boy," he muttered. He could hear Richards' every breath. "One, two, three,--" he counted. He heard a voice, so broken that the words could hardly be distinguished, and he glanced back. "For God's--sake, Chester--hold--up!" gasped Richards. "I--can't lose--this race--now."