This time a Yale man carried his colors to victory, and the "Sons of Old Eli" yelled their approval and delight. Yale was doing nobly. This night she was making a record for herself that would be remembered.
But now came the greatest race of all—the mile run. Preparations were made for it, and feverish anticipation swayed the great multitude.
Fred Flemming was literally quivering as he leaned over the rail of the box.
"Let's give Yatsie a great send-off!" he exclaimed. "They are coming out in a minute."
He was watching the point where the runners must first appear. His hand shook on the rail.
The runners appeared. The first was Beatty, the Harvard man, and the Harvard crowd "hoo-rahed" hoarsely. Then came Mansford, of Princeton, and the Tigers let themselves loose. Jetting, of Dartmouth, followed, and the New Hampshire lads greeted him in a manner that brought the blood to his cheeks. Then little Judd, the U. P. man, trotted out, and he was received with howls of delight from the Quakers.
"Now—now comes Yates!" cried Fred Flemming.
The Yale man appeared, and Flemming stood up to cheer. He dropped into his seat as if he had been shot, his face turning ashen gray, and the cheer dying on his lips.
"Good heavens!" gasped Tom Thornton. "It is Frank Merriwell!"