The contests followed each other in swift succession, and Yale more than held her own. There was
no reason why the wearers of the blue should not be jubilant.
At last, the races came on. Up in the Flemming box were three lads who were anxiously awaiting the announcement of the one-mile run.
Despite the triumph which he felt, Fred Flemming betrayed a sort of hilarious nervousness as he chatted with his sisters and his friends.
Watching Fred closely, Tom Thornton saw that he was under a strain. And again Thornton wondered what had become of Frank Merriwell.
Princeton won one of the shorter races, and Harvard won another. In each of these a Yale man was second.
"If Mr. Merriwell had contented himself with being less ambitious, he might be here to-night," said Flemming, in an aside to his college comrades.
Emery and Thornton exchanged glances. There was a significance about such language that could not be misunderstood. Thornton shivered a bit, and, unconsciously, drew back from Flemming.
The excitement of the evening was at its highest pitch thus far. The contestants for yet another race
were getting into position, and, in another moment, they were off like a pack of greyhounds.