After that maneuver, Dickie felt that he had no more strength left. It was an immense relief to him to think that the strain of his work was past, and that Stevie was in a good way now to win the race. But he must give a final word of cheer to Stevie before he was left behind. “Go in, Steve, go in now! That’s the boy! All right, you’ve got it cinched. Go on! What’s the matter?” Dickie, looking up at his chum’s face, saw an expression that made his heart sink. There was despair in Stevenson’s eyes. Others saw, and understood. From under the willows came encouraging cries to Sullivan: “Go in, Scotia! You’ve got him! He’s all in! He’s a quitter, anyway, and the little fellow’s used up. Come out of that box, Sully, and win!” Dickie heard this. Stevenson heard it, too, and it did him no good. Sullivan heard, also, and acted on it. He worked out of the pocket to Dickie’s side. Dickie looked at Sullivan, saw only a grim resolve there, and in despair appealed to Stevenson. “O Stevie, go in! Only half the stretch! You can do it! Go in!” Stevenson made no answer, but to Dickie’s dismay, fell down, as if exhausted, on the grass. Dickie, without looking again, felt the courage of the Scotian beside him. There was no giving in there. The race was lost! But was it lost? He did what had never entered his head until that instant. The import of Ludwig’s last words flashed on him. Had Stevenson really quit? He did not seem used up. And after everything had worked so nicely! What a shame for Webster! It was in the blindest kind of way that Dickie pegged on beside Sullivan. Only for that work on the turn and Sullivan would have been yards ahead! What a runner this Sullivan was! Dickie was marveling that he held up with him. The audience was marveling, too. They were frantic, some for Sullivan, but most for Dickie, because he was so small and had borne his previous share so nobly. Their yells were deafening. But Dickie never heard them. He was taken up with a different thing—with the unbearable strain of the race. Every nerve in his body quivered under the rack of his effort. Every little molecule and atom was crying out with the torture of it—but would not Webster be disgraced if he did not win? He knew what they would all say. Could he make it? Still behind—what a hard fighter—this Sullivan! He would never underrate a Scotian again. One foot and twenty yards to go. Now then! No use. O Dickie! Who called? All Webster was calling. O Dickie! What a horrible thing! Hot, heavy iron in his loins—great lead weights on his feet—and his chest! What an awful collapse in his chest! Would it hold out? And his knees—if they would but keep off the ground he would win yet. A foot, still a foot—what an awful lot to make up! Half a foot! Was Sullivan going, too? Ten yards—even! Was it even? Was it worth this awful agony? Even—one more, two more, another—and—sh-h-h!