Man and Wife - Wilkie Collins (phonics books TXT) 📗

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 halfway 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 everybody 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 round, Fleetwood proved the doctor to be right. He shot past Delamayn like an arrow from a bow. At the end of the eight round, he was leading by two yards. Half the race had then been run. Time, ten minutes and thirty-three seconds.

Toward the end of the ninth round, the pace slackened a little; and Delamayn was in front again. He kept ahead, until the opening of the eleventh round. At that point, Fleetwood flung up one hand in the air with a gesture of triumph; and bounded past Delamayn with a shout of “Hooray for the North!” The shout was echoed by the spectators. In proportion as the exertion began to tell upon the men, so the excitement steadily rose among the people looking at them.

At the twelfth round, Fleetwood was leading by six yards. Cries of triumph rose among the adherents of the north, met by counter-cries of defiance from the south. At the next turn Delamayn resolutely lessened the distance between his antagonist and himself. At the opening of the fourteenth round, they were coming side by side. A few yards more, and Delamayn was in front again, amidst a roar of applause from the whole public voice. Yet a few yards further, and Fleetwood neared him, passed him, dropped behind again, led again, and was passed again at the end of the round. The excitement rose to its highest pitch, as the runners⁠—gasping for breath; with dark flushed faces, and heaving breasts⁠—alternately passed and repassed each other. Oaths were heard now as well as cheers. Women turned pale and men set their teeth, as the last round but one began.

At the opening of it, Delamayn was still in advance. Before six yards more had been covered, Fleetwood betrayed the purpose of his running in the previous round, and electrified the whole assembly, by dashing past his antagonist⁠—for the first time in the race at the top of his speed. Everybody present could see, now, that Delamayn had been allowed to lead on sufferance⁠—had been dextrously drawn on to put out his whole power⁠—and had then, and not till then, been seriously deprived of the lead. He made another effort, with a desperate resolution that roused the public enthusiasm to frenzy. While the voices were roaring; while the hats and handkerchiefs were waving round the course; while the actual event of the race was, for one supreme moment, still in doubt⁠—Mr. Speedwell caught Sir Patrick by the arm.

“Prepare yourself!” he whispered. “It’s all over.”

As the words passed his lips, Delamayn swerved on the path. His trainer dashed water over him. He rallied, and ran another step or two⁠—swerved again⁠—staggered⁠—lifted his arm to his mouth with a hoarse cry of rage⁠—fastened his own teeth in his flesh like a wild beast⁠—and fell senseless on the course.

A Babel of sounds arose. The cries of alarm in some places, mingling with the shouts of triumph from the backers of Fleetwood in others⁠—as their man ran lightly on to win the now uncontested race. Not the inclosure only, but the course itself was invaded by the crowd. In the midst of the tumult the fallen man was drawn on to the grass⁠—with Mr. Speedwell and the trainer’s doctor in attendance on him. At the terrible moment when the surgeon laid his hand on the heart, Fleetwood passed the spot⁠—a passage being forced for him through the people by his friends and the police⁠—running the sixteenth and last round of the race.

Had the beaten man fainted under it, or had he died under it? Everybody waited, with their eyes riveted on the surgeon’s hand.

The surgeon looked up from him, and called for water to throw over his face, for brandy to put into his mouth. He was coming to life again⁠—he had survived the race. The last shout of