“Yes. So that’s Tom? And your name is Harriet; and then there’s a Dick, too, isn’t there?”
“Why, yes, Dick Somes.”
“To be sure. And the fourth one?”
“Roy, the boy that just came in second in the half-mile.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Kearney. “I think I have you straightened out now. Shall we stand up so we can see this better?”
Ferry Hill was certain of three places in the 100 yards since she had three of the four entries, but it was going to make some difference which those places were. Chub and Post and Walker were crouching side by side, each at the head of his alley, and with them was the lone Hammond entry, a fellow named Ranck. Mr. Kearney ventured a mild pun on the name, but Harry was too intent to heed it. Then the pistol broke the stillness and the four leaped away from the mark and came charging down the track. It was all over in an instant—to be exact, ten and two fifths seconds—with Chub first by a yard and Ranck in second place. Harry mourned the loss of second place but looked cheerful as she scrawled a very big, black 8 to Ferry Hill’s credit. The score so far stood Ferry Hill 13, Hammond 20; and that looked lots better than 5 to 17.
There was quite a field for the 220 yards’ dash, and three trial heats were run before the participants in the finals were decided on. In the end Ferry Hill won two places and Hammond two, Post and Chub Eaton qualifying for the brown-and-white.
The quarter-mile run was a tame affair, Holmes of Hammond taking the lead at the start and never being once headed to the tape. Roy won second place again, followed by Pryor and Kirby, and Ferry Hill’s stock went up several points. The score now stood 19 for the visitors and 25 for the home team. Things began to look more cheerful, and Dick, looking over Sid’s shoulder as the manager reckoned up the points, felt encouraged and even hopeful. But ten minutes later the prospect was very black indeed. The result of the pole vault was made known, giving Hammond 9½ points and Ferry Hill 1½, Cullum having tied a Hammondite for third place. Then the best Glidden was able to do in the low hurdles was to come in a bad fourth.
“The dickens!” wailed Sid. “That gives them 45½ to our 21½! I guess it’s all over but the shouting, Dick.”