That was the starter at the head of the straightaway over by the tennis courts.
Bang!
That was the little nickel-plated revolver held, glistening in the sunlight, over the starter’s head.
“Come on, you Rand! Come on! Come on!”
“Go it, Broadwood! Beat him out, Cheever!”
“A-a-a-ay!”
That was—well, that was about everybody; everybody seated on the grand stand and everybody gathered along the track. The Dual Track and Field Meeting between Yardley Hall School and Broadwood Academy had begun, and they were hustling off the trial heats in the hundred-yards dash. It was a gala day at Yardley, and the Weather Man had provided ideal conditions. Overhead a warm blue sky, underfoot a firm and springy track, and between scarcely enough breeze to ruffle the big blue banner hanging from the pole at the end of the field. It was warm—too warm, perhaps, for the comfort of those in the grand stand, but just right for the contestants on track and turf. From the grand stand the spectators, shielding themselves from the ardent rays of the sun behind parasols and programmes, looked down upon a smooth green oval of turf bordered by the blue-gray ribbon of newly rolled cinders. Beyond was the little shingled, vine-screened boat-house, and the river, glinting with pale golden lights, and then the vividly green expanse of Meeker’s Marsh. To the left, down the straightaway, gleamed a white tent about which the Broadwood athletes congregated. River and links, courts and diamonds, were deserted to-day, for all Yardley was at the field. Important looking youths and busy-looking men, wearing the blue ribbon badges which proclaimed them officials of the meeting, hurried or strolled about and on the bench below the stand, a handful of Yardley contestants sweltered under their dressing-gowns and awaited their events. Another heat in the hundred yards was run off, and then the pole-vaulters and shot-putters were called out, and the bench emptied itself and from the Broadwood dressing tent hurried the Green’s entrants.
Down near the scene of the field events a number of Yardley and Broadwood athletes whose services would not be required until later in the afternoon, had congregated to watch their teammates. In a Yardley group was Gerald—Gerald very brown of face and attired in a blue and white wrap. Beside him stood Alf, with a Field Judge’s badge hanging from his coat lapel.
“Poor old Thompson can’t even see this,” Alf was saying. “I suppose he’s mooning around in his room. It’s a shame.”
“Yes, it is a shame,” Gerald agreed, “but he isn’t doing any mooning. He borrowed a pair of field glasses from some fellow and he and young Merrow are up there on the hill somewhere.”