Every one wished he could lend his man an inch, or the hundredth part of an inch.

Redwood's rush increased, and the vanishing inches struck panic into our philosophic breasts.

Could Tempest but hold out these few yards, we were safe.

He would! No! Yes! No, they're all but level another six yards.

Then suddenly we saw Tempest fling his hand behind and reel forward with a blind stagger over the tape, and as the simultaneous report proclaimed a dead heat, fall sprawling and helpless on the ground.
The cheers died on our lips, for it was surely something more than exhaustion or broken wind.