Everyone seemed to be calling to him at once. A score of arms sought to clasp Tom Parsons, a double score of hands were shot out to pat him on the back.
“Good old Tom!” cried Holly Cross, as he ran up to help support the half-exhausted runner.
“You’ve done your share,” complimented Kindlings.
A figure burst through the throng surrounding the winner.
“Oh Tom!” a voice cried. “I knew you could do it!” Frank Simpson clasped his chum in his arms. There was not a trace of envy—only the best of good fellowship.
“Well, I thought of you,” said Tom, when his breathing was less labored. “I—I ran for you, Frank. I pretended it was your contest, and I played it as well as I could.”
“Couldn’t have been better,” declared the Big Californian. “Now come on—the girls want to see you,” for Frank had been sitting near Miss Tyler and her friends.
“Oh, wait until I wash up,” protested Tom, but Frank would not take “no” for an answer, and, slipping a big robe around his chum he led him away to receive the congratulations that awaited him.
Tom’s father came down from the grandstand to meet him.
“Oh boy!” he cried. “You did it! I’m going to telegraph your mother!” And then, with a hand clasp, he pressed his son to him, and hurried on to wire the good news.