There was a groan from the grand stand.
“——Height, 11 feet. Second: Myers, Yardley; 10 feet, 11 inches. Third: Sawyer, Broadwood; 10 feet, 6 inches. Fourth: Beaton, Broadwood; 10 feet, 1 inch.”
That was disappointing, but there was no time to discuss it, for, far up the track the hurdlers were crouching on their mark. A tiny puff of smoke, followed by the sharp bang of the pistol, and the four figures were racing down. A groan went up from the Yardley sympathizers as Stevenson, leading at the second hurdle, stumbled. But he recovered nicely, scraped over the next barrier and almost regained his loss. Almost, but not quite, for at the tape the Broadwood crack beat him out by a scant foot. Yardley captured third place, and fourth went to her rival. Again the Green had nosed out a win.
“Say,” complained little Durfee, chewing hard at the end of his lead pencil, “this is too blamed close for fun. Let’s figure up the standing, Dan.”
But the announcer saved them the trouble.
“The score now stands,” he trumpeted: “Broadwood, 60 points, Yardley, 50 points.”
“We’re dished!” sighed Dan.
“No, we’re not; not yet. We’ll get 8 in the hammer, likely, and more than half the points in the mile run. That will make it—let me see—64 for us and—gosh!”
“Yes, 68 for Broadwood,” supplied Dan, dryly. “What we’ve got to do is to get sixteen points somewhere. And I guess we can’t do it.”
“I’m afraid not,” Durfee agreed, soberly, studying his figures. “I wonder if the hammer throw is over. Oh, Mr. Payson!”