Five young men toed the mark, crouching with fingertips to the ground and waiting the starter's revolver-shot. Three were in their stocking-feet, and the remaining two wore spiked running-shoes.
“Young men's race,” Bert read from the program. “An' only one prize—twenty-five dollars. See the red-head with the spikes—the one next to the outside. San Francisco's set on him winning. He's their crack, an' there's a lot of bets up.”
“Who's goin' to win?” Mary deferred to Billy's superior athletic knowledge.
“How can I tell!” he answered. “I never saw any of 'em before. But they all look good to me. May the best one win, that's all.”
The revolver was fired, and the five runners were off and away. Three were outdistanced at the start. Redhead led, with a black-haired young man at his shoulder, and it was plain that the race lay between these two. Halfway around, the black-haired one took the lead in a spurt that was intended to last to the finish. Ten feet he gained, nor could Red-head cut it down an inch.
“The boy's a streak,” Billy commented. “He ain't tryin' his hardest, an' Red-head's just bustin' himself.”
Still ten feet in the lead, the black-haired one breasted the tape in a hubbub of cheers. Yet yells of disapproval could be distinguished. Bert hugged himself with joy.
“Mm-mm,” he gloated. “Ain't Frisco sore? Watch out for fireworks now. See! He's bein' challenged. The judges ain't payin' him the money. An' he's got a gang behind him. Oh! Oh! Oh! Ain't had so much fun since my old woman broke her leg!”
“Why don't they pay him, Billy?” Saxon asked. “He won.”
“The Frisco bunch is challengin' him for a professional,” Billy elucidated. “That's what they're all beefin' about. But it ain't right. They all ran for that money, so they're all professional.”