“Look at him noo,” he cried, as Robert began to overtake the young miner who had started equal with Rundell.  “He’s passed young Paterson noo, an’ ye’ll soon see him get on level terms wi’ Rundell.  Go on, Rob!” he yelled in delight, as Robert shot past.  “Go on, my lad, you’re daein’ fine!”

Excitement was rousing the crowd to a great pitch, and yells and shouts of encouragement went up, and cheers rang out as the favored one went past the various groups of supporters.

All during the race as the competitors circled the course, excitement grew, until the last round was reached, when every one seemed to go mad.  Only three remained to compete now for the prize, the others having given up.

But the shouts and cheers of the crowd seemed strangely far away to the racers, as each rounded the last corner for the final stretch of about one hundred yards.  They were both spent, but will power kept them at it.  They were not breathing, they were tearing their lungs out in great gulping efforts, and their hearts as well.  Tense, determined, inevitability seemed to rest upon them.

Louder roared the crowd, hoarser and deeper the cheers, closer and closer the multitude surged to the winning post, yelling, shouting, crying and gesticulating incoherently as the two men sprinted along with great leaping strides, panting and almost breaking down under the terrible strain of the mile race.

Nearer and nearer they came, still running level, with hardly an inch to tell the difference; but in a pace like this Robert’s greater strength and hard training were bound to tell.  Fifty yards to go, and they came on like streaks of color, fleeting images of some fevered brain, and one girl’s smile each knew was waiting there at the far end.

The prize for which both were now striving was that for which men at all times strive, which keeps the world young and sends the zest of creation wandering through the blood—­a pair of dancing eyes, lit by the happy smile of love; for Mysie Maitland had smiled to them, each claiming the smile for himself, just before the race started.

And now the last ounce of energy was called up, but the mine-owner’s son failed to respond.  Dazed and stupid, his mind in a mad whirl, his legs almost doubling under him, he found his powers weaken and his strength desert him, and he staggered just as Robert was about to shoot past him; but in staggering he planted his spiked shoe right upon Robert’s foot, and both men went down completely exhausted, Rundell unable to rise for want of strength and Sinclair powerless because of his lacerated foot.

“Guid God!  He’s spiked him!” roared Andrew in a terrible rage.  “The dirty lump that he is—­spiked him just when he was gaun to win, too!”

A howl of execration went up from Sinclair’s supporters as he lay and writhed in agony, while Rundell lay still except for the heaving of his chest.  For one tense moment they lay and the crowd was silent, whilst each man’s heart was almost thumping itself out of place in his body, stretched upon the rough cinder track.