“Yes,” said Irving. “If I fire a second, it will be to call you back because of a false start.—Now then,—all ready once more. On your marks!” They crouched. “Set!” He fired.
Somehow in the start Westby’s foot slipped, and in trying to get clear he lunged against Flack. Irving saw it and instantly fired a second shot, and shouted, “Come back, come back!” The runners heeded the signal and the shout, but as they tiptoed up the track, they looked irritated.
“Westby, you fouled Flack.” Irving spoke with some asperity. “I shall have to set you back a yard.”
“It was an accident,” Westby replied warmly. “My foot slipped. I couldn’t help myself.”
“But it was a foul,” declared Irving, “and I shall have to set you back a yard.”
“It was an accident, I tell you,” repeated Westby.
“If it was an accident, you oughtn’t to set him back,” said Drake, his fellow Corinthian.
“It’s in the starter’s discretion,” spoke up Mason, the Pythian.
“The penalty’s a yard,” affirmed Irving.
Westby shut his lips tight and looked angrily contemptuous. Irving measured the distance. “There,” he said, “you will start there.”