Then the school would come out. He would mix with them,
and in the subsequent confusion get back to bed unnoticed.
The task was easier than it would have seemed at the beginning of the
chase. Mr. Downing, owing to the two facts that he was not in the
strictest training, and that it is only a Bannister who can run for any
length of time at top speed shouting "Who is that? Stop! Who is that?
Stop!" was beginning to feel distressed. There were bellows to mend in
the Downing camp. Mike perceived this, and forced the pace. He rounded
the pavilion ten yards to the good. Then, heading for the gate, he put
all he knew into one last sprint. Mr. Downing was not equal to the
effort. He worked gamely for a few strides, then fell behind. When Mike
reached the gate, a good forty yards separated them.
As far as Mike could judge--he was not in a condition to make nice
calculations--he had about four seconds in which to get busy with that
bell rope.
Probably nobody has ever crammed more energetic work into four seconds
than he did then.
The night was as still as only an English summer night can be, and the
first clang of the clapper sounded like a million iron girders falling
from a height onto a sheet of tin.
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