“Still thinks I’m it, by the looks of him,” the Yale man said to himself. “I must have a talk with him when this is over.”
Then he thrust the fellow out of his mind and crouched for the start. Stovebridge was beside him, vibrant and ready. The two timekeepers stood by the mark, stop watches in hand. Niles stepped back a pace and drew a small revolver from his pocket.
“Are you ready?” he called in a clear voice.
He raised the revolver above his head.
“Set!”
Both runners quivered slightly, as they waited with every muscle tense the moment when they could shoot forward down the track.
The sharp crack of the pistol split the silence, and like a flash both men leaped forward, to the accompaniment of a bellow from the watching crowd, and flew down the stretch of hard, dry cinders.
Merriwell had made the better start and was slightly ahead of the other man. Presently it was seen that this lead was slowly increasing, and the spectators cheered wildly as they observed it, for as a rule they were an impartial lot and believed in shouting for the best man. Besides they were grateful to the stranger for having made the race possible.
Almost imperceptibly this lead increased. In spite of his lack of practice, the Yale man was wonderfully speedy and ran in almost perfect form, and with amazing ease. His body was bent forward but slightly, with his head held up naturally. He threw his legs out well in front with a full easy stride, and brought his feet down squarely, his thighs and knees thrown a little forward. There was absolutely no lost motion. His arms swung easily beside his body, and, with every stride, seemed to help him along.
Stovebridge ran well, but he had a bad trick of swinging his arms back and forth across his body, which retarded him slightly, and moreover, in his haste to finish the stride, he bent his knee somewhat, thus losing a fraction of an inch each time, which would mount up considerably in the course of the mile.