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.