The crowd about the start drew back to the turf and a whistle shrilled. Down at the finish a handkerchief waved response. The six boys stopped prancing and settled to their places. The starter stepped back.
“On your marks!”
Perry, settling his toes into the cinders, heard the click of the pistol hammer as it was drawn back. There was a sudden silence.
“Set!”
An instant’s pause and then the pistol spoke sharply and the race was on. Six lithe, white-clad forms launched themselves forward, twelve arms beat the air and twelve legs twinkled. Three of the six had drawn ahead in the first lunge, Perry and Kirke amongst them. Twenty yards away the field was already strung out. Kirke, running terrifically, was a yard to the good. Perry and Lawrence were next. Soper was a yard or so behind them. But that order changed again in the next few seconds. Perry was breasting Kirke then and Lawrence was almost even with them. Soper was making bad going and falling back. The shouts of the crowd in the stands and around the finish made a crashing bedlam of sound that drowned completely the quick scrunch-scrunch of the runners’ shoes and their hoarse breathing.
Now it was half-distance, and Perry saw the white figure at his right fall back and felt rather than saw another form crawling up and up on the other side near the rim. Lawrence held on, too, and fifty yards from the finish Perry, Lawrence and Gedge were neck-and-neck, with Kirke a single pace behind. Soper and Knight were already beaten. Then Gedge forged ahead and the wild shouts of the Springdale contingent took on new vigor. Cries of “Clearfield! Clearfield!” “Springdale! Springdale!” filled the air. Dimly, Perry heard his own name over and over.
Now the slim white thread was rushing up the track toward him. He had no sense of moving himself, although his lungs were aching and his arms swung back and forth and his legs, suddenly weighted with lead, still spurned the track. It was as though he, in spite of the painful efforts he was making, was standing still and the finish line was racing toward him! For a moment he wondered about Kirke, but for a moment only. The tape was but twenty yards away now and it was time for the last supreme endeavor.
Gedge was two paces in front when Perry started his final rush. In ten yards he was level. In five more he was back with Lawrence. [Like a white streak Perry breasted the string], his arms thrown up, his head back, and after him came Gedge and Lawrence, Kirke, Knight and Soper.
Once over the line, Perry staggered, recovered and then fell, rolling limply across the cinders. A dozen eager boys rushed to his assistance and he was lifted and borne to the turf where, a moment later, he found his breath.
“Kirke?” he whispered.