“For the flag,” said Tom.
“For America,” added Dick.
“I’ll remember,” answered Bert, as he touched the flag at his waist, and the look came into his eyes that they had learned to know.
A moment’s breathless silence, while over a hundred trained athletes watched the starter, as he looked along the waiting line and slowly raised his pistol. A shot, a tremendous roar from the crowd, a rush of feet like a stampede of steers and they were off. A moment later Berlin knew that they had started. Five minutes later, all Europe knew it. Ten minutes later, America knew it. Two continents were watching the race, and beneath the gaze of these invisible witnesses the runners bounded on. All types were there; brawny Germans, giant Swedes, stolid Englishmen, rangy Canadians, dapper Frenchmen, swarthy Italians, lithe Americans—each one bound to win or go down fighting.
At first the going was rather hard on account of the great number of contenders. They got in each other’s way. They were like a herd of fleeing deer, treading on each other’s heels.
Bert’s first impulse was to get out in front. Like every thoroughbred, he hated to have anyone show him the way. The sight of a runner ahead was like a red rag to a bull. But he restrained himself. If he were to win that race, he must use his brains as well as his legs. What use to waste his strength by trying to thread his way through those flying feet? Let them make the pace. By and by they would string out and the path would clear. In the meantime he would keep within striking distance.
As he ran on easily, Thornton ranged alongside.
“May I go with you, my pretty maid?” he grinned.
“You may if you like, kind sir, she said,” retorted Bert.