“Good. See that light-haired Robinson man over there at the pole? Well, play for him, Ware. And don’t let him head you for a minute. All right now.”
“All ready, there?” called the starter, as he dropped back and glanced at the pistol in his hand. There was an instant of silence. Then,
“On your mark!” he cried.
[CHAPTER XXV]
THE LAST EVENT
Eleven men had entered for the two-mile run, six from Robinson and five from Erskine. Of these, we know Ware, Conroy, and Hooker, wearers of the purple ribbon, and have just heard of Burns, the Brown’s crack long-distance runner. In view of the result of the race, it may be well to mention also Tammen, another Robinson entry, who, until to-day, had been viewed as a second-rater. For the others, they were big and little, fair and dark, and all with their spurs still to win. Taken together, they were a clean-built, healthy lot as they stood at the starting line, their white running pants and white shirts—the latter crossed by the purple ribbon or the brown and white—just tinged with saffron by the long rays of the setting sun. The starter glanced again at his pistol.
“Set!” he cried.
And as the runners put their weights forward and poised arms front and back, the pistol spoke and the spiked shoes bit at the cinders as the men strove for the inside of the track. The timers looked up from their watches and the group about the line broke up. Ten minutes—possibly a little less, perhaps a little more—must elapse before the result could be known and Erskine or Robinson could claim the meet. For by a freak of fortune each college had now 54 points to its credit, and final victory would go to that one whose colors first brushed the string at the finish. Whether the spring’s labor and planning was to be crowned with victory or draped with defeat depended on who won first place and its 5 points.