Almost sick at heart, and with trembling hands pretty Flo Temple managed to raise the field glasses she had with her. She really hated to level them just to see the face of the winning Boggs.
Instantly she uttered a loud shriek.
"Oh! you're all wrong!" she cried. "It isn't Boggs at all! Instead of Number One, that is Number Seven!"
"It's Fred Fenton!" whooped the fellow with the megaphone, so that everybody was able to hear.
"Fenton wins! Hurrah for Fred!"
Brad Morton, the track captain, caught hold of Bristles, and the two of them danced around, hugging each other as though they had really taken leave of their senses.
"Fenton! Oh! where is Boggs? Fenton! Riverport wins the championship!"
So the shouts were going around, and the frantic lads leaped and waltzed about.
Meanwhile the lone runner was swiftly approaching. They could all see now that it was Seven upon his chest, which at first had been mistaken for the One. Fred was apparently in no great distress. He seemed able to continue for another round, had such a thing been necessary.
Only once he turned to glance over his shoulder. This was when, arriving close enough to the outskirts of the crowd to hear some of the loud talk, he caught a cry that the nearest of his competitors had been sighted. And Fred could well afford to smile when he saw that Boggs was not in it at all, for the second runner was Number Eleven, which stood for Gabe Larkins. He was coming furiously, and had he been better coached at the start he might have even given the winner a run for the goal.