The Willoughby Captains | Page 4

the end of the second lap Ashley shows signs of flagging, and Bloomfield is quickening his pace.
"Huzza!" yells Parson; "Bloomfield's going to take it up now. Jolly well-planned cut-out, eh, Telson?"
"Rather!" shrieks Telson. "Here they come! Whiskers is ahead. Now, Willoughby--well run indeed! Lam it on, Bloomfield, you're gaining. Keep it up, Ashley. Now, Wyndham; now!"
Ashley drops gradually to the rear, and before the final lap is half over has retired from the race, covered with glory for his useful piece of work. But anxious eyes are turned to the other three. The Londoner holds his own, and Bloomfield's rush up seems to have come to nothing. About a quarter of a mile from home an ominous silence drops upon the crowd, and for a few moments Willoughby is too disheartened to cheer. Then at last there rises a single wild cheer somewhere. What is it? The positions are still the same, and-- No! Both Wyndham and Bloomfield are gaining; and as the discovery is made there goes up such a shout that the rooks in the elms start away from their nests in a panic.
Never was seen such a gallant spurt in that old meadow. Foot by foot the two Willoughby boys pull up and lessen the hateful distance which divides them from the leader. He of course sees his danger, and answers spurt for spurt. For a few yards he neither gains nor loses, then, joyful sight, he loses!
"Look at them now!" cries Telson, as they approach--"look at them both. They're both going to win! Ah, well run, Willoughby--splendidly run; you're going like mad--keep it up! Huzzah! level. Keep it up! Wyndham's ahead; so's Bloomfield. Both ahead! Well run both. Keep it up now. Hurrah!"
Amid such shouts the race ends. Wyndham first, Bloomfield a yard behind, and the Londoner, dead beat, a yard behind Bloomfield.
What wonder if the old school goes mad as it swarms over the cords and dashes towards the winner? Telson actually forgets Parson, Cusack deserts even his own father in the jubilation of the moment, each striving to get within cheering distance of the heroes of the day as they are carried shoulder-high round the ground amid the shouts and applause of the whole multitude.
So ended, in a victory unparalleled in its glorious annals, the May Day races of 19-- at Willoughby; and there was not a fellow in the school, whether athlete or not, whose bosom did not glow with pride at the result. That the school would not disgrace herself everyone had been perfectly certain, for was not Willoughby one of the crack athletic schools of the country, boasting of an endless succession of fine runners, and rowers, and cricketers? But to score thus off a picked London athlete, beating him in two events, and in one of them doubly beating him, was a triumph only a very few had dared to anticipate, and even they were considerably astonished to find their prophecy come true.
Perhaps the person least excited by the entire day's events was the hero of the day himself. Wyndham, the old captain, as he now was--for this was his last appearance at the old school--was not the sort of fellow to get his head turned by anything if he could help it. He hated scenes of any sort, and therefore took a specially long time over his bath, which his fag had prepared for him with the most lavish care. Boys waylaid his door and the schoolhouse gate for a full hour ready to cheer him when he came out; but he knew better than to gratify them and finally they went off and lionised Bloomfield instead, who bore his laurels with rather less indifference.
The old captain, however, could not wholly elude the honours destined for him. Dinner in the big hall that afternoon was crowded to overflowing. And when at its close the doctor stood up and, in accordance with immemorial custom, proposed the health of the old captain, who, he said, was not only head classic, but facile princeps in all the manly sports for which Willoughby was famed, you would have thought the old roof was coming down with the applause. Poor Wyndham would fain have shirked his duty, had he been allowed to do it. But Willoughby would as soon have given up a week of the summer holiday as have gone without the captain's speech.
As he rose to his feet deafening cries of "Well run, sir; well run!" drowned any effort he could have made at speaking; and he had to stand till, by dint of sheer threats of violence, the monitors had reduced the company to order. Then he said, cheers interrupting him at every third word, "I'm much obliged to the doctor for speaking so kindly about me. You fellows know the