“Come on, Freshman! Dig your spurs in! Whoo-ee!”
Clarke’s anger gave way to excitement. Down the home-stretch came the runners, sprinting for the mark. Stearns was shouting unintelligible things at his side and apparently trying to climb his back in order to see the finish. The throng was yelling for Hooker, for Rindgely, for Harris.
And then, suddenly, comparative silence fell. Twenty yards away the runners became recognizable. The crowd stared in wonderment. Well in the lead and increasing that lead with every long, perfect stride came an unknown, a youth with pale cheeks disked with crimson, a youth of medium height with lithe body and long legs that were working like parts of machinery. Back of him ran Hooker; beyond, dim figures told of a struggle between Rindgely and the junior for third place. It was the stentorian voice of the big fellow at the edge of the track that broke the momentary silence of surprise.
“Pull up, Freshman, it’s all yours!” it shouted.
Then confusion reigned. The little throng raced along the track toward the finish. Hooker’s friends urged him to win, while others applauded the unknown. And in a second it was all over, mile race and fall meeting. [A white-clad form sped across the finish six] yards in the lead, tossed his arms in air, swerved to the left, and pitched blindly into the throng.
[A white-clad form sped across the finish.]
“What’s the matter with Seven?” shrieked a small youth at Stearns’s elbow. The track-team captain turned.
“Who was that fellow that won?” he demanded.
“Ware,” was the jubilant reply. “Ware, ’07!”