“Oh, bully!” cried Tommy. “But Tiernan——”
“Huh!” said Pete.
From across the field came the sharp report of the pistol sending the half-milers away, and as Pete and Tommy hurried to the tents the white-clad runners swept by in a bunch on the first of their two laps, Poor and Tolmann side by side in the lead, and Thatcher, Erskine’s main hope, running warily well toward the rear. Around the turns they went and entered the back-stretch, hundreds of voices urging them on.
Allan, a depressed-looking figure in his dragging drab gown, met them as they crossed the track. There was no use asking him whether he had received the longed-for message; one glance at his face was sufficient. Pete took him aside out of the throng.
“You’re going to run, Allan,” he said, in low tones, “so get warmed up. Now, don’t ask any questions, for I can’t answer ’em yet. Just do as I tell you. It’s all right; you’re going to run, and if you don’t win out I’ll—I’ll lick you!”
The expression of hope which had at first leaped into Allan’s face died out again, but a look of curiosity remained.
“What—what do you mean?” he asked, wonderingly.
“Just what I say. You’re going to run, and if you want to do anything in the race get your muscles stretched. Let go of me; I’m in a hurry. Have you seen Nast?”
“I’ve found him,” said Tommy, hurrying up. “He’s gone over to the finish. Here come the half-milers. Track, there!”