Word ran down the line. The road was cleared again. People began to cheer and stand on tiptoes.
Bart Hodge, watching in the observatory, had found it difficult to repress an exclamation of bitterest disappointment when he turned his glass on the runner far away across the fields and discovered it was not Merry.
“It’s Huntley!” he mentally groaned. “Where is Frank?”
“There’s another!” shouted Paul Proctor. “Who is it? Who is it? It’s one of our boys!”
“I believe it is,” said Robert Ashley.
“It—it’s Bramwell!” declared the astounded president of the club. “He’s gaining on Huntley, too! Huntley is fagged! Bramwell seems fresh! It’s going to be a hot finish!”
The excitement was growing, but it increased when a third runner appeared.
“There’s Merriwell!” said Hodge, unable to keep still.
It was Frank, and Bart saw he was gaining on both Bramwell and Huntley. Still he detected something wrong in Merry’s gait and began to suspect that an accident had befallen him.
“That’s it—that’s what’s the trouble!” he muttered. “Otherwise he’d be leading now.”