“Let Jode have his lead,” said he; “unless he has picked up wonderfully in the last year I won’t be taking his dust for many yards.”
With his heel, Darrel traced a line on the ground.
“Here’s the starting point, Merriwell,” he observed. “If you’re ready, I am.”
Frank took the pistol from Brad and placed himself behind Darrel.
“On your mark!” he called out, then watched critically to see Darrel place himself.
If the “boy from Nowhere” had any eccentricities in his sprinting, none showed in the way he dropped to the line and began gouging into the earth with the toe of his left foot.
“Set!” called Frank.
The muscles began to twist under the white skin of Darrel’s legs and arms like so many coiled springs. Up came the right knee while the toe of the right foot ground out its own little pocket in the soil. The weight of Darrel’s body was thrown on his fingers and over the starting line.
Frank, admiring the sprinter’s ease, which spoke volumes for the amount of hard practice he had undergone, purposely waited an inordinate length of time before snapping the pistol. An alert mind is as necessary in a good sprinter as a pair of speedy legs; and there must be good nerves, to hold the clamoring muscles in leash until exactly the right moment to let them go.
Bang! went the signal, and on the instant Darrel flung from the line as though shot from a cannon. He ran for perhaps twenty yards before he halted, and came trotting back.