Robert, on the other hand, while not carrying a great amount of flesh, was well built.  The chest was broad and deep, the shoulders square and the head held well up, his nose being finely adapted for good respiration.  The legs, by reason of heavy work in early life, were a little bent at the brawn, but were as hard as nails; they showed wonderfully developed muscles, and gave the impression of strength rather than speed.

They presented a fine picture of eager, determined young manhood, clean and healthy, and full of life and mettle.  Each face betrayed how the mind was concentrated on, the work ahead, every thought directed with great intensity towards the goal, as they bent their bodies in preparation for the start.

The pistol cracked and rang out upon the midday air with startling suddenness, and immediately they were off on a fine start to the accompaniment of the cheering of the crowd which lined the whole track in a great circle.  The first round ended with the runners much as they had started, the interval between each being fairly equally maintained.  Semple, however, dropped out, not caring to overstrain himself as he had some heavy racing next day at another gathering, where a much higher money prize was the allurement.

Round the others went, the excitement growing among the crowd, who kept shouting encouraging remarks to the racers as they passed.

“Keep it up, Robin!” cried Andrew Marshall.  “Keep it up, my lad.  Ye’re daein’ fine.”

“Come away, Rundell, the race is yer ain,” shouted an enthusiastic supporter of Peter.

“Nae wonner!” answered Matthew Maitland, heatedly.  “They’ve gi’en him the race in a present.  Look at the handikep!”

“An’ what aboot it?” enquired the other, not knowing what to answer.

“Plenty aboot it,” replied Matthew.  “If it hadna’ been he was Peter Rundell, he wadna’ ha’e gotten sic a start.  Black Jock means him to get the race, an’ it’s no’ fair.  I wadna’ ha’e the damn’d thing in that way, an’ if he does win it he’ll hae nae honor in it.”

“But Rab’s runnin’ weel,” Matthew continued, as he followed the runners with eager eyes, and stuck the head of his pipe in his mouth in his excitement, burning his lips in the process.  “Dammit, I’ve burned my mooth,” he ejaculated, spluttering, spitting and wiping his mouth.  “But the laddie can rin.  He’s a fair dandie o’ a rinner.”

“He couldna’ rin to catch the cauld,” broke in Rundell’s admirer, glad to get in a word.  “Look at him.  Dammit, ye could wheel a barrow oot through his legs.  He jist rummles alang like a chained tame earthquake.”

“What’s that?” asked Matthew, somewhat nettled at this manner of describing Robert’s slightly bent legs.  “He canna rin, ye say!  Weel, if he couldna’ rin better than Peter Rundell, he should never try it.  Look at Rundell!” he went on scathingly, “doubled up like a fancy canary, and a hump on his back like a greyhound licking a pot.  Rinnin’!  He’s mair like an exhibition o’ a rin-a-way toy rainbow.  He’s aboot as souple as a stookie Christ on a Christmas tree!” And Matthew glared at the other, as if he would devour him at a gulp.