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Rh uched it: Calvert’s chest had broken it a tiny laction of a second before. Hugh almost collapsed after the race. Two !en caught him and carried him, despite his prosts, to the dressing-room. At first he was aware ily of his overwhelming weariness. Something ry important had happened. It was over, and
 * was tired, infinitely tired. A rub-down refreshed

s muscles, but his spirit remained weary. For a onth he had thought of nothing but that race— en Cynthia had become strangely insignificant in mparison with it—and now that the race had en run and lost, his whole spirit sagged and ooped.

He was pounded on the back; his hand was asped and shaken until it ached; he was cheered an echo by the thrilled Sanford men; but still s depression remained. He had won his letter, iiled; he had not justified himself. A few days later he entered Henley’s office, intiding to make only a brief visit. Henley conlatulated him. “You were wonderful, Hugh,” said enthusiastically. “The way that you awled up on him the last hundred yards was rilling. I shouted until I was hoarse. I never
 * had run a magnificent race, all Sanford sang his
 * aise—Norry Parker had actually cried with ex, ement and delight—but he felt that he had