A complication of an unexpected kind arose now. The Misses Redwood were quite sufficiently _au fait_ with the etiquette of a race-course to know that if their brother ran he must win, and that everybody else must wish him to win. In an unguarded moment I joined in the cheer which greeted Tempest as he appeared stripped for action on his way to the starting- post. This was taken up as a grievous personal affront. The young ladies repudiated and flung me from them with an energy and disgust which quite astonished me. They loudly clamoured for my removal, and failing that, made a concerted retreat from my detested vicinity.

"Nasty horrid Sarah, go away!" they shouted.

Then spying d.i.c.ky Brown in the distance, they shrieked on him to deliver them.

"Want to go _to d.i.c.ky_--dear d.i.c.ky. Get away from Sarah."

And suiting the action to the word they swarmed over the back of the bench, and started in full cry for the enviable d.i.c.ky.

Richard, however, was an old bird for his years, and did not, or pretended not to hear their siren voices, and sheered off into the open just in the nick of time. Whereupon the Misses Redwood redoubled their clamour, and could only be allured back to the shelter of my fatigued wing by my going to them and audibly bawling in their faces, "Bravo, Redwood! go it, Redwood!"

On these terms they surrendered, and the difficulty, at the cost indeed of my reputation as a loyal "Sharper" was temporarily tided over.

It was noticed that Tempest, though cool as ever, was pale, and carried his left hand, while he stood waiting, in the opening of his waistcoat.

I saw Redwood go to him and say something, pointing as he did so to the hand. Tempest's reply was a flush and a laugh as he removed his hand from its resting-place, and waved it about at his side.

I did not like it. But it was too late now. Mr Jarman stood ready with his pistol up, the noise of the field suddenly changed to silence, and the two athletes, with arms out, stood straining on the line.

Off! It was a good start, and the pace was startling for a mile.

Tempest had the inside track. He seemed to have the advantage in lightness of step, while Redwood's strength was more in length of stride. The first of the four laps was run almost inch for inch.

Perhaps Tempest, thanks to his berth, had a foot to the good as they entered on the second. Here our man forged ahead slowly, and gradually drew to a clear lead. But we trembled as we saw it. Would he stay?

Apparently he ran as lightly as before, but Redwood, as he lay on at his heels, seemed to be going even easier. However, the half-mile saw Tempest three yards ahead and still going. Then, to our concern, we saw Redwood's stride lengthen a little, and watched inch after inch of the interval shrink, until at the end of the third lap there was scarcely more difference than there had been at the end of the first. Yet our man was still to the front.

And now it was almost difficult for us onlookers to breathe, for the tug was at hand. The fourth lap had scarcely begun when a wild yell called attention to the fact that Tempest was once more "putting it on." What was still more satisfactory was that he was going as well as ever, although in that respect so was Redwood. The gap opened again, the foot grew to a yard, and the yard to half a dozen, and the half-dozen to-- At last! It was but two hundred yards from home when Redwood's stride once more lengthened out, and a new shout told us all that the chasm was once more being filled up, inch by inch and foot by foot. Tempest heard the shout and knew what it meant. He, _too_, lengthened his stride, and seemed as if he was going to answer rush for rush. But our hearts stood still and our tongues clave to the roofs of our mouths as we perceived that it would not come off. He could barely keep up his present pace.

Would it see him through? Perhaps half the distance was pa.s.sed, and Redwood had only recovered a third of his lead. Then the yells broke out. Every one wished he could lend his man an inch, or the hundredth part of an inch. Redwood's rush increased, and the vanishing inches struck panic into our philosophic b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Could Tempest but hold out these few yards, we were safe. He would! No! Yes! No, they're all but level another six yards. Then suddenly we saw Tempest fling his hand behind and reel forward with a blind stagger over the tape, and as the simultaneous report proclaimed a dead heat, fall sprawling and helpless on the ground.

The cheers died on our lips, for it was surely something more than exhaustion or broken wind. Redwood was beside him in a moment, and drew his head on his knee. It was a dead faint--not from fatigue, but from pain.

His burned and blistered hand, which he had so carefully concealed from everybody, and of which he had made so little, betrayed the secret plainly enough.

For once his pride and determination had overrated his physical strength. He had calculated on just being able to win the race. All he had done was just to save it, at a price which, as it turned out, was to cost him weeks of illness, and even threaten the loss of a hand.

The news of his calamity spread like wildfire, and put an end, as far as I at least was concerned, to the sports for the day.

We heard later in the day that he was in the Sanatorium in a high fever.

Next day he was delirious, and the notice on the board told us that the doctor considered his condition dangerous. The next day, his old grandfather, the only relative he had, came down, and the next, summoned by my urgent message, my dear mother. Then for a day or two we were kept in suspense, till one happy afternoon the bulletin reported a change for the better, and presently the welcome news came that all danger was past.

For me at least that was the happiest day of my life, except perhaps that a week later when my mother as a special privilege allowed me to see him for a moment.

He was sitting up in bed, smiling but pale.

"Tell me," he said, "I've never heard yet, did I win the Mile?"

"Dead heat," said I.

"What time?"

"Four four and a half."

"A record, isn't it? It was worth the grind."

I had my doubts, but knew better than to say so.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

A GOOD SHOW-UP ALL ROUND.

It was the last day but one of the Summer term, and the Philosophers were in a ferment. The lists were to be out in the afternoon, and a score of events were to be decided by them. Was I to get on to the top form of my division, and if so, was it Langrish or Purkis who was to be displaced? Or was I, after all my grind, to yield a place to the truculent c.o.xhead?

More than that, was Warminster to be beaten after all by a day boy called d.i.c.ky Brown, who, amid all the changes and distractions of the term, had stuck doggedly to his work, and was reported a hot man for the head place in the junior division?

All this was exciting enough, but it was as nothing to the tussle at the head of the school.

Pridgin's alarming burst of work in the Easter term had, contrary to all expectation, not died out. Every one prophesied he would sicken of it.

Wales laughed at him. Crofter smiled sweetly. Tempest inquired frequently after his health, and even Redwood knocked off some of his extra cricket to keep pace with it.

"What are you trying to do?" asked Tempest one day, as his friend looked in.

"Nothing, my dear fellow, only amusing myself, I a.s.sure you."

"You have a queer idea of fun. Do you know, I've hardly been out on the river all the term, owing to you."

"Don't let me prevent you, old chap. The exercise will do you good."

Tempest laughed.

"I hope yours will do you good. But two can play at your game."

"Two! Half a dozen.--I've not got my knife into _you_, though."

"Who? Crofter?"

"Rather. I see no other way of taking it out of him. He shirks sports, and takes his pound of flesh out of the captaincy, although he knows he's no right to it, and no one, not even the rowdies in the f.a.ggery, respects him."

"That's why we're going steady," said I, "just to rile him."

"The only way to take it out of him is to make him sit up, and harry him," said the amiable Pridgin. "I only hope, though, it won't land me head of the house. I'm depending on you to beat me. But I'm not going to play second fiddle to Crofter."

"It will serve you right if it does land you head," responded Tempest.

"If it does, we'll have to keep you up to the mark and see you don't shirk."

"Don't say that, old chap, or I shall jack it up," said Pridgin, putting his feet upon the window-ledge. "Besides, does it occur to you that Redwood's leaving, and that the second man up, if he's one of us, is left not only captain of Sharpe's but captain of Low Heath?"

"I know," said Tempest quietly, "but they say Leslie of Selkirk's is in the running for that."

"Stuff and nonsense!" retorted Pridgin. "Tempest of Sharpe's is the man for my money."