“It isn’t in the algebra, it isn’t in any book,” cried Duncan, gleefully. “Nothing like it ever happens in a book. I’m engaged in an affair of honor; I’m going to fight a duel!”
“A duel!” exclaimed Sam, aghast. “With whom?”
“Oh, a fellow you don’t know, in Odlin House.”
“When?”
“To-morrow, on the running track behind the gym. Will you be my second?”
The invitation was due to a momentary impulse of friendliness. Archer was a track expert and a decent fellow; why not let him in?
Duncan stood with hands in trousers pockets, smiling roguishly and watching the expression on Archer’s face. Appalled by the grim picture called up by the word “duel,” and puzzled to reconcile this conception with Peck’s evident gayety, Sam knew not whether to accept or refuse. Then there recurred to his mind the serious incident of the last term, when Kendrick had sprung instantly to his help, and he answered in Kendrick’s own words, “Sure I will!”
“That’s right,” said Peck. “There’ll be no end of sport. You see—oh, hang that bell!—I’ll tell you all about it after class.”
At half-past two the next afternoon, when the outskirts of the gymnasium were clear of idlers, the duel was fought. It was agreed that Archer should be starter and Woods judge at the finish; the course was three times round the track. Shirley took the lead at the start, running in quick, short steps, with Peck pounding away in eager strides behind him. Shirley tripped past the judge on the first lap, ten yards ahead of his pursuer, and went pattering around the curve and up the back stretch as if his legs were driven by a gasoline engine. At the lower end, however, his pace began to tell upon him; the pat-pat of the striking soles became slower, the steps shorter. Duncan perceived that the time for his spurt had come, but he was twelve yards behind when he crossed the line the second time.
The third lap proved fierce beyond all expectation. Shirley, game to the last, clenched his fists and lashed himself on. Duncan, stung by the fear of an ignominious end to his adventure, plying his legs to the limit of his strength, with dry mouth and dizzy head panted after his rival. He gained but slowly. On the back stretch he was still five yards behind. As they came down toward the finish line, two wobbly, tottering figures with set eyes and strained, twisted features, one close to the shoulder of the other, Sam, seized with the fear that both would drop before the finish, reached forward eagerly to catch Duncan as he touched the line. Duncan, keeping his feet to the end, plunged helplessly into Sam’s arms. At the same time Woods received the quivering, gasping Shirley, who lay upon him for a few seconds, an inert dead weight. Presently Shirley opened his eyes and looked up. “Who—won?” he breathed rather than spoke.