“It’s Gould!” cried a voice from near by, and the supporters of the down-river academy cheered wildly.
“Hurrah!” yelled Paddy. “Erin go bragh! There’s good old Jones! And a Shrewsburg fellow hot after him.”
Don tried to jump, but found he couldn’t because of his strained ankle and contented himself with a hair-raising yell. Then he added a 6 to the St. Eustace score, an 8 to that of Shrewsburg, and a 7 to Hillton’s row of figures. For Gould, Jones, and the Shrewsburg runner crossed the line in the order given amid the cheers of the three rival contingents.
“It’s a tie so far,” shouted Paddy, as he added up the few figures. “St. Eustace has twelve points, Dave, and so have we. By Jove! it all depends on the next man, Don, doesn’t it? Can you see any one, Dave?”
“No one in sight yet. Let’s hope the first will be a Hillton chap, fellows. But even if it isn’t the score’s bound to be close. Wonder what’s become of ‘Old Virginia’?”
That was a nickname that Paddy had bestowed upon Wayne Gordon in allusion to the latter’s native State.
“I’m afraid Wayne’s dropped out of it,” answered Don, with a tremble in his voice, “but still——”
“St. Eustace wins!”
Half a dozen voices took up the cry as a fleet-footed runner whose breast bore the blue monogram came quickly into sight. The three boys groaned in unison. St. Eustace’s fourth man was speeding toward the finish.
“Done for,” whispered Dave.