When Allan reached the finish he was unable for a moment to reach Professor Nast, for the half-milers were tearing down the home-stretch and the crowd was thick about the tape. Shouts of triumph, roars of applause, arose. Down the cinders, their straining forms throwing long wavering shadows before them, came Thatcher, Tolmann, and a Robinson runner, the first two almost side by side, the third man four or five yards behind. Then, in an instant more, the red string fluttered away and Thatcher raced over the line, a winner by a bare yard over his team-mate.
“Eight more points!” cried Tommy, gleefully. “Who knows how the shot-put came out?”
“We got first and third,” answered Hal, turning. “Hello, Tommy, is that you?” But Tommy was too busy casting up figures on his score to do more than nod.
“Was Pete first?” he asked in a moment.
“First! Gosh, he was first by almost a foot. Tiernan fouled on his last try, and——”
“How about Monroe?” asked Pete, worming his way forward.
“Hello, you old brick!” cried Hal, seizing his hand. “Why, Monroe did something like forty-four feet two, I think.”
“That’s all right,” said Pete.
By this time Allan had found Professor Nast, and the latter was reading the message. It ran:
“Allan was at my house New York evening December twenty-sixth except between eight and eight-thirty o’clock when he went errand for me Thirty-ninth street. Could not have gone to Brooklyn and did not if he says so. Mary G. Merrill.”