“Well, I guess I’ll go along,” Stearns said. “It surely is cold, and we know how this is going to end. There go Rindgely and Hooker now; watch ’em overhaul the bunch. If you see Ames, Billy, tell him I said he was to look me up to-night, will you?”
“All right,” answered the trainer. “But you’d better see this out; there’s something in the way of a finish coming pretty quick.”
“Why, what’s up?” asked the track-team captain, turning quickly to observe the runners.
“Well, I don’t know for sure,” answered Kernahan, cautiously, “but the scratch-men aren’t going to get their mugs without a fight for them, I’m thinking.”
“Who’s in the running?” Stearns asked, eagerly. Once more the first men were coming down the home-stretch. But now the order was changed. The black-haired sophomore was not in sight, but in his place sped Hooker, an easy, confident smile on his face. On his heels was Rindgely. Then came the junior, Harris, and beside him, fighting for the pole, was a little plump senior. Behind this pair and about five yards distant was the long-legged freshman. His head was held well, but his breathing was loud and tortured. Stearns looked each man over searchingly. Then he turned to the trainer.
“Last lap! Last lap!” was the cry.
“Say, Billy, you don’t mean Harris?” shouted Stearns when he could make himself heard.
Kernahan shook his head.
“Then who?”
“Keep your eyes on Ware,” said the trainer.