“Come on! Come on!” yelled Bean Perkins, who was getting his voice in shape for the strain that would be put on it when the games were called. “Oh you, Tom Parsons! Come on!”
And Tom came. Running freely and well, he covered yard after yard, doing the half just a shade better than his other performance.
“Now for the real test,” murmured Kindlings, as our hero swung around the track on the final lap.
There were many eager faces lining the rail, and hands that held stop watches trembled a bit. On and on ran Tom, until he breasted the tape at the finish.
“Time! Time! What’s the time?” shouted the eager students who knew that fifths of seconds counted in a championship meet.
“Four minutes, forty-one and two-fifth seconds,” announced Holly. “Tom, that’s the best yet!”
“We’ll win! We’ll win!” screamed Bean. “Come on, boys!” he called to his crowd of shouters, “let’s practice that new song, ‘We’ll cross the line a winner, or we’ll never cross at all.’ All on the job, now.”
“Tom, old man, you’re all right,” cried Phil, as his chum slipped a sweater over his shoulders. “You’re going to win!”
“I hope—so,” was the panting answer.
There was a comparison of records, and it was found that while Tom’s was a little behind some mile run performances, it was better than that of a number of former champions.