Johnson nodded. "I know just how you fellows feel about Ellis," he said, "and I don't blame you a bit. A chap that will leave his school in the lurch like that can't have much of the right stuff in him. But I don't know about licking him. He's awfully good in the weights. And the Hopevale crowd say that since he came there he's improved a lot, too. I don't know whether it's so or not, but they claim he's beating forty feet with the shot, right along. And that he's throwing the hammer a hundred and sixty. But you can't tell. They may be trying to scare us, so we'll think it's no use to enter, even. Never can tell beforehand--that's my motto in athletics."

Dick nodded, and was about to answer, when the scorer called, "Randall, second try." Dick rose, and was making ready for his run, when the scorer waved him back. "No, don't jump, Mr. Randall," he cried. "Sit down again, please. Wait till they run the quarter mile."

Dick nodded, and complied. Every eye in the field was turned on the start of the quarter. The nine athletes stretched straight across the track. Dick saw that Morrison of his own school was on the pole; that Harry Allen was sixth in line, and that their third entry, Egan, was on the extreme outside. "Bang!" went the pistol, and the runners were off, in a mad burst for the lead to the first turn. There was little to be distinguished for a moment or two, and then, as they rounded and squared away for the back stretch, Dick's heart gave a great leap of excitement. Morrison had held his lead, Egan had cut clean across in front of the others, and was second; only Allen lay back, in seventh position, apparently "pocketed" and unable to extricate himself. Up the stretch they swung, in steady, rhythmical procession; from across the field one would have said that they scarcely moved; so greatly did the added distance deceive the eye. Once a Hopevale runner spurted and tried to pass the leaders, but they quickened their pace in turn, and he fell back into the ruck, beaten and exhausted. Dick could not take his eyes from Allen's figure. He hardly realized, until that moment, how much he cared for his friend; he felt as if he himself were running the race; under his breath he was muttering, "Go it, Harry! Go it, old man!"

Around the curve they swung, and squared away for home. A great shout came from the grandstand "Fenton, Fenton, Fenton!" and then "Morrison! Egan!" "Go it, Morrison! Go it, Egan!" again and again.

It was a Fenton victory; there was no doubt of that. The two runners were yards ahead of the field, and though both were tiring, they seemed certain of keeping their lead to the tape, well ahead of the rest. Dick felt a mixture of emotions. He was glad, first of all, of course, for the school, and yet, mingled with his joy, there was a tinge of sorrow for his friend. For he knew Allen's ambition had been to wind up his last year with a win, and he felt that after all the work he had done, it would be only a fair reward. Yet, barring the impossible, Allen was beaten. And then, while all these thoughts were flashing through his brain in a hundredth part of the time it takes to put the words on paper, the seemingly impossible did happen. All at once, as Dick sought for his friend's figure in the struggling ruck, he caught sight of him, running wide on the outside of the field, but cutting loose at last, with all the energy which he had held in reserve, while he had been forced to wait and hang back, pocketed, against his will. He did not merely pass the wearied runners from the other two schools; he flashed by them as if they had been standing still. It was a sight to bring a crowd to its feet, and to its feet it came.

Never for one instant did Allen's splendid stride relax. His eyes were half closed, his head was thrown a little to one side, his lips were drawn back from his teeth, but he ran like a race-horse, true, steady, and game to the core, putting out the last ounce in him in a finish such as Fenton Field had rarely seen. Twenty yards from the tape he passed his schoolmates, still locked shoulder to shoulder, and keeping still to his tremendous pace, swept by the post--a winner.

The whole Fenton section of the stand was in an uproar. First, second and third; a clean sweep--all eight points in the quarter--here was something to buoy up their hopes at last. Nor did this end their good fortune. A moment later the mile runners were started on their long four circuits of the track, and Ned Brewster justified all the predictions that had been made for him. He had the rest of the field outclassed, and saving himself for the half-mile which was to come later, made no effort at fast time, winning easily in four minutes and forty-eight seconds, with Sheldon of Clinton second, and Marshall of Hopevale third. The scorer at the bulletin board again shifted his big figures, and now they read:

Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
9 16 7

Dick went back to his broad jump trials with a light heart. It seemed that the meet was as good as won. On his second trial he stepped over the take-off and made a foul jump, and on his third, in his anxiety not to repeat the mistake, he fell short of the board by almost a foot, and though the actual distance was greater than anything he had yet done, in measurement it amounted to but twenty feet and one-half an inch. Yet he qualified for the finals, for Harding of Hopevale was the only man who bettered his mark to any extent. On his second attempt he cleared twenty feet, eight inches; while Johnson, after his first good jump, waived his next two trials, watching the work of the others to see whether he need jump again, or could save himself for the high.

Dick had felt himself grow more limber with each successive jump, and now felt sure that if he could once catch the take-off correctly, he could improve his mark. On his first trial, in the finals, he accomplished what he wished, and knew, even while still in midair, that he had excelled his first performance. The measurer pulled the tape up carefully to the mark left by Dick's heels in the soft, well-rolled earth, and then announced, "Twenty-one one and a half." Dick grew suddenly elated. It was the best jump he had ever made. He was ahead of Harding; almost up to Johnson himself. For a moment he even dreamed that he might prove the winner, after all. But his triumph was short-lived. Johnson pulled off his sweater and took his second try, and this time, putting a trifle more speed into his run, cleared twenty-one, seven and a quarter. Dick failed to improve on his second and third tries, yet he seemed sure of second place until Harding's last jump. The Hopevale man put all his energies into his attempt, and even from where Dick stood he could tell that the jump was a good one. A moment later the announcer called, "Mr. Harding jumps twenty-one, five," and Dick was put back to third. Yet he had won a point for the school, and with it the right to wear his "F."