[CHAPTER XVII]
A Glorious Victory
It was a perfect day for the great race that was to settle the long-distance championship of the world. The sun shone brightly, but not too hotly, and there was a light breeze sufficient to cool the runners, but not retard their progress.
The Marathon was to start at three in the afternoon at a point twenty-six miles away from the Stadium. The most detailed preparations had been made for the event. The distance had been carefully measured off by expert surveyors, and policed from end to end in order to keep a clear path for the racers and see that the rules were strictly observed. At every hundred feet stood a group of soldiers. All traffic had been suspended by an imperial order. An ambulance, with Red Cross doctors and nurses, was to follow and pick up any who might fall out or be overcome with exhaustion.
The contestants had been taken to the starting point in automobiles the night before, so that they might get a good night’s sleep and be in prime condition. Now the temporary training quarters were humming with bustle and excitement. The last bath and rubdown and kneading of the muscles were over and the final words of caution and encouragement spoken, as the fellows lined up in readiness for the starter’s pistol.
Bert, in superb condition, his skin glowing, his muscles rippling, shook hands with his friends, as he stood waiting for the start.
“For the good old college, Bert,” said Drake.
“For the team,” barked Reddy.