Then a low murmur broke from the crowd as they saw young Paterson coming round the track, almost staggering under the strain, but keenly intent on finishing now that his two formidable opponents were lying helpless.  He had kept running during the last round merely to take the third prize.  Now here was his chance of the coveted Red Hose, and he sprinted and tore along as fast as he was able, calling up every particle of effort he could muster, and intent on getting past before the two men could gather strength to rise.

“Come on, Rob!” roared Andrew Marshall, “get up an’ feenish, my wee cock!  Paterson’s comin’ along, an’ he’ll win.  Get up an’ try an’ feenish it!”

Stirred by the warning, Robert tried to rise.  He raised himself to his knees, but the pain in his injured foot was too great, and he fell forward on his face unconscious, and the race ended with Paterson as winner.  It was an ironical situation, and soon the crowd were over the ropes, and the two opponents were carried to the dressing tent, where restoratives were applied under which they soon came round.

It was a poor ending to such a fine exhibition.  A terrible anger smoldered in Robert’s breast against the mine-owner’s son for his unconscious action, an action which Robert, blinded by anger at losing, was now firmly convinced was deliberate, and he felt he would just like to smash Rundell’s face for it.

Robert went home to have his injured foot attended to.  He was too disgusted to feel any more interest in the games that day, and so he remained in the house, nursing his foot for the rest of the day, which passed as such days usually do.  Everyone talked about his misfortune and regretted in a casual way the accident which had deprived him of the coveted honor.

It was in late June, and that night Peter Rundell, as he was returning from the games after every event had been decided, overtook Mysie on her way to Rundell House, after having spent the evening at her parents’ home.

“It’s a lovely evening, Mysie,” he said, as he walked along by her side.  “What did you think of the games to-day?”

“Oh, no’ bad,” replied Mysie, not knowing what else to say.  “It was a gran’ day, an’ kept up fine,” she continued, alluding to the weather.

“Yes.  Didn’t I make a horrible mess of things in the Red Hose?” he asked.  Then, without waiting, he went on:  “I was sorry for Sinclair.  He’s a fine chap, and ought to have won.  It was purely an accident, and I couldn’t help myself.  I was beaten and done for, and it was hard lines for him to be knocked out in the way he was, just as he was on the point of winning, too.”

“Oh, but ye couldna’ help it,” Mysie returned.  “It was an accident.”

“Yes; and I would rather Sinclair had got in, though.  It was a good race, and Sinclair ought to have got the prize.  It was rotten luck.  I’m sorry, and I hope the poor beggar does not blame me.  We seem always to be fated to be rivals,” he continued, his voice dropping into reminiscent tones.  “Do you remember how we used to fight at school?  I’ve liked Sinclair always since for the way he stood up for the things he thought were right.  I believe you were the cause of our hardest battle, and that also was an accident.”