Redwood was beside him in a moment, and drew his head on his knee.

It was a dead faint--not from fatigue, but from pain.
His burned and blistered hand, which he had so carefully concealed from everybody, and of which he had made so little, betrayed the secret plainly enough.
For once his pride and determination had overrated his physical strength.

He had calculated on just being able to win the race.

All he had done was just to save it, at a price which, as it turned out, was to cost him weeks of illness, and even threaten the loss of a hand.
The news of his calamity spread like wildfire, and put an end, as far as I at least was concerned, to the sports for the day.
We heard later in the day that he was in the Sanatorium in a high fever.
Next day he was delirious, and the notice on the board told us that the doctor considered his condition dangerous.

The next day, his old grandfather, the only relative he had, came down, and the next, summoned by my urgent message, my dear mother.