Westby took the place behind the others without a word.
“Ready now! On your marks!”
The pistol cracked, and this time they all got away safely, and Irving raced after them over the grass.
From the crowd at the finish came the instant shout of names; out of the short choppy cries two names especially emerged, “Flack! Flack! Flack!” “Westby! Westby! Westby!” Those two were the favorites for the event. Irving saw the scratch men forge ahead, and mingle with the handicap runners; in the confusion of flying white figures he could not see who were leading. But the tumult near the finish grew wild; arms and caps were swung aloft, boys were leaping up and down; the red-haired Dennison ran along the edge of the track, waving his arms; Morrill on the other side did the same thing; the next moment the race had ended in a tumultuous rush of shouting boys.
AS TO WHO HAD WON, IRVING HAD NOT THE SLIGHTEST IDEA
As to who had won, Irving had not the slightest idea. He was hastening up to find out—hoping that it had been Westby. And then out from the crowd burst Westby and rushed towards him, panting, flushed, hot-eyed, attended by Morrill and half a dozen other Corinthians.
“I hope you’re satisfied with your spite-work,” said Westby. His voice shook with passion, his eyes blazed; never before had Irving seen him when he had so lost control of himself. “You lost me that race—by half a yard! I hope you’re pleased with yourself!”
He surveyed Irving scornfully, breathing hard, then turned his back and strode off to the athletic house.