But they have too little run left in themselves to pull up for their own brothers.

Three fields more, and another check, and then "Forward" called away to the extreme right.
The two boys' souls die within them; they can never do it.

Young Brooke thinks so too, and says kindly, "You'll cross a lane after next field; keep down it, and you'll hit the Dunchurch road below the Cock," and then steams away for the run in, in which he's sure to be first, as if he were just starting.

They struggle on across the next field, the "forwards" getting fainter and fainter, and then ceasing.

The whole hunt is out of ear-shot, and all hope of coming in is over.
"Hang it all!" broke out East, as soon as he had got wind enough, pulling off his hat and mopping at his face, all spattered with dirt and lined with sweat, from which went up a thick steam into the still, cold air.