“Milers, this way! Won’t you hurry, please?” implored the Clerk. “Maury? Next the pole, please. Goodyear? Step in there. Webster? Webster! Is Webster— Oh, all right. Next to that man. High? Stewart? Dunn? Norcross? Pennimore? Pennimore, you start on the second line. You, too, Norcross. Now, boys, remember there’s to be no jostling. Look out for your arms at the corners. Be sure you’re two strides ahead before crossing in front of a competitor. Careful about your start; you’ll be penalized if you beat the pistol. All right.”
“Yardley! Yardley! Yardley!” thundered the stand. The runners threw aside their wraps and limbered up, running a few steps back and forth along the track. Gerald was excited, but not nervous. He looked curiously at Stewart, the Broadwood crack, and compared him with Maury. Stewart was big and rangy and confident looking. Maury, smaller, lither, looked as though his nerves were fairly on edge. His face was pale and he darted anxious glances at his opponents as he came back to his place in the line.
“On your marks!” called the starter in businesslike voice.
The runners toed the scratch and leaned forward as the command to “Get set” reached them. Then came the pistol and the eight boys leaped forward. There was a little scurrying at first for positions, but at the first corner they had settled down into the unhurried pace that makes the first part of a mile race look unimpressive. High, of Broadwood, ran ahead, with Webster stepping in his tracks. Then came Goodyear, Stewart, Dunn, Norcross, Maury and Gerald in order. The stand quieted down, and the band struck up. At the second corner High hit up his pace and down the backstretch he drew the line after him at a good speed. At the third corner Webster ran around and took the lead. At the end of the lap they were running in that order, save that Gerald had passed Maury.
“Stick to them, Yardley!” called the stand as they went by. “Good work, Maury! Go it, Goodyear!”
Then Gerald dug his spikes and slipped into the lead just before the turn, gaining a good four yards on Webster. Dunn challenged and closed in behind Gerald, but Stewart kept his place, running easily.
Gerald’s instructions, to kill himself in three laps and leave the race to Maury and Goodyear, had been somewhat of a surprise to him, and he would have much preferred staying in the contest to the end. But he had no thought of disobeying Andy’s command, and so at the second corner he let out another peg and made a hot pace along the stretch, so hot that the field began to trail out then and there. High fell back to the rear, and between Stewart and Norcross the distance lengthened. Maury was still well back as Gerald took a brief glimpse over his shoulder at the next turn. At the finish of the second lap, with the race half run, Gerald and Dunn were running close together, with Goodyear and Stewart some six yards back and an open space of about thirty feet between them and the next group. High had killed himself in the first lap, and was already out of the running, trailing along far behind.
“That’s a warm pace Gerald is making,” said Dan as the runners swept by. “I guess this lap will settle him.”
“Yes, but look at Bert Maury,” said Durfee. “He looks all-in, or I’ll eat my hat. He’s trying to pass that Broadwood fellow and can’t do it. What sort of a game is this, anyway? Why isn’t he up there in front? He’ll never cut that distance down.”
“Looks as though Goodyear would have to win this if we’re going to get it,” muttered Dan, anxiously. “He’s running a dandy race, isn’t he? See him watch Stewart. Whoa there! He almost got past. I guess Mr. Stewart is getting anxious.”