Once more the runners sped past, but now they were no longer bunched together. In front, leading by half a dozen yards, ran Poor. Next came Thatcher, then a Robinson man, then Tolmann. Behind Tolmann the rest of the field pegged away, already out of the reckoning, barring accidents.
“All out for the two miles!” bawled the clerk.
Pete shot a glance at Tommy and the latter nodded. Together they turned away.
“Get a move on, Allan,” cried Pete. “Don’t stand there like a wooden Indian!” Allan, his face expressing wonder and returning hope, slipped quickly out of his dressing-gown.
“I guess you’re joking, Pete,” he said, “but——”
“Is Mr. Ware here?” piped a shrill voice, and the blue-coated messenger boy pushed his way through the throng about the tents. “Telegram for Mr. Ware!”
With a cry Allan turned and seized the envelope from the boy’s hands and tore it open. Under the gaze of dozens of curious eyes, he read the words on the still damp sheet of yellow paper and turned with exultant eyes to Pete and Tommy, who had paused at the edge of the track.
“It’s all right!” he cried. “Where’s Nast?” And he sped off around the track. Tommy and Pete followed, and the latter, as he went, took a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocket and tore it into tiny pieces.
“Hurry up for the two miles!” bawled the clerk again.