David expressed his satisfaction at that news.
The event justified the handicapping committee’s arrangement. Besides David and Wallace there were only two contestants in the quarter-mile, a fourth-former named Silsbee, who was given twenty yards, and a sixth-former named Heard, who was given ten. It was a chill and windy day, a fact that reduced the number of spectators to a small group who stood near the finish line with their hands in their pockets and their overcoat collars turned up; on the turf encircled by the track the football squads continued to practice, more or less oblivious of the races that were being run; what chiefly marked the day as different from one of trial tests and dashes was the table placed on the grass near the athletic house and bearing an assortment of shining pewter mugs and medals.
It was toward the end of the afternoon that the quarter-mile was called. David and Wallace started together at the crack of the pistol and held together, shoulder to shoulder, halfway round the course. There they passed Heard, and a little farther on they passed Silsbee, and then Wallace forged a little ahead of David. But David had planned out his race; he was not going to be drawn into a spurt until he was a hundred yards from home. So he let Wallace lengthen the distance between them from one yard to five, and from five to ten; and then he set about closing up the gap. It closed slowly but surely—one yard, two yards, three yards gained; then four and then five. For a moment Wallace, who heard David coming up, held that lead, but for a moment only; then David put on all his speed and the five yards’ difference vanished in as many seconds. Twenty yards from the finish the two were racing neck and neck, but David crossed the line a good three feet ahead.
In the athletic house Wallace panted out his congratulations, and David gasped his thanks.
“Handicapped by new shoes, I guess,” David suggested.
“No; you’d have won in stocking feet. Best quarter-miler in school,” Wallace answered. “You wait, though. Lay for you next spring.”
They finished dressing and got outdoors just in time to see the last event on the programme—the finals of the hundred-yard dash, which was won by a sixth-former named Tewksbury. Then the spectators moved over in a body to the table that bore the prizes. David saw Ruth Davenport take her stand next to Mr. Dean, who waited beside the table, ready to speak.
“I am here merely as master of ceremonies,” said Mr. Dean, “and my chief duty and privilege is to introduce to you Miss Ruth Davenport, to whom, of course, you need no introduction. She will hand to each prize-winner the mug or medal to which his efforts have entitled him. As I call off the names each fellow will please come forward. First in the mile run, W. F. Burton; time, six minutes and fifty-one seconds. Second, H. A. Morton.”
Burton and Morton advanced amidst clapping of hands. David saw the smile that Ruth had for each of them as she presented the trophy, and when in his turn he faced her and took from her hand the cup he was aware of a shining eagerness in her eyes; she bent toward him and said, “Oh, I saw you win! It was splendid!”