“It isn’t too late to cancel that wager, Mr. Kearney,” laughed the Doctor, leaning across. But the other shook his head.
“I don’t want to, Doctor. That check will be cheap for a victory over our old rival.”
“There!” cried Harry. “They’re on their marks! Why, Warren isn’t there! That gives us only three men! Isn’t it dreadful?”
“Which is Dick Somes?” asked the visitor. Harry pointed him out with a finger that trembled.
“The big boy with the yellowish hair,” she whispered. “And the little one is Chase. And Townsend’s next to him on the left. The boy with black hair, the one with the cherry-and-black ribbon across his shirt is Connor! He’s Hammond’s crack distance runner. I—I hope he won’t win!”
“So do I,” answered Mr. Kearney. “They’re off!”
The pistol broke sharply on the air and the field of eight runners leaped forward.
“Oh!” breathed Harry. “It’s four times around, and I’m just sure I’ll die before they finish!”
There’s nothing very spectacular about a mile race. It is rather a test of endurance than of speed when compared to the middle distances and sprints, and as the time for the distance is likely to be somewhere around five minutes the pace is not fast enough to be inspiring to the spectators. As the runners took the first corner they seemed rather to be out for a gentle exercise jog than taking part in a race which, no matter how it was won, would decide the fortunes of the day.