"Oh, no, he isn't. Only a little over a hundred yards."
A cry rang out just then, down the course, and Wilma, turning, caught a glimpse of her brother, surrounded by his supporters—and all the crowd supported him now—approaching the start.
She was moved to call him, to demand his instant withdrawal from this silly, useless race; but her voice—this she realized—would not have been heard above the shouting. She sank back upon the seat, her face flushed, her forehead furrowed with little lines, her fingers locking and unlocking.
Some one had stopped just behind the carriage. Afterward she was wont to say she had "felt" the presence; for, looking around and down, her eyes met those of the stranger. His were the first to drop before her unflinching, flashing gaze. Why he had stopped just there, the centre of a little group of the curious, he could never explain. It was only an instant, merely for the exchange of that glance perhaps, for he moved on again almost immediately, up the course, half running, stepping high, gracefully.
The double lines of spectators now were not so long nor so thick as they had been; nor did they manifest those signs of interest that had marked the earlier event.
At the start, the tall stranger removed neither his long overcoat nor his satchel. His cigar had gone out, but he still held it, cold, between his teeth.
Little Thurston, who was to fire the pistol a second time, exclaimed, amazedly: "Aren't you goin' to take off those things?"
"No, guess not," was the cool reply. "What's the use!"
Nibsey Morey, Billy Shaw and Jimmy exchanged glances; Billy smiled outright.