Dud tried to glean comfort from the fact, but those five points stared at him obstinately. They were putting the low hurdles across the cinder for the final heat, while at the end of the oval lithe forms sprang in air to waft themselves over the bar nearly ten feet above the ground or to go, doubled up like an animated jack-knife, flying into the brown loam of the jumping pit. Behind the stand the hammer-throwers were still busy. Dud watched Jim Quinn launch himself upward with his long pole, straighten a tense body and drop across the trembling bar and sighed with relief. The pole vault might decide the meeting and so far Quinn was more than holding his own.
Musgrave and Keyes, of Grafton, and Torrey and Capper, of the rival school, crouched far up the track. At the finish a handkerchief waved. The four figures set, straightened and leaped away from their marks and the sound of the pistol followed them. Down they came, stride, stride, stride, leap; Torrey gaining between hurdles, Keyes pulling him back at the timbers; Musgrave and Capper falling behind but fighting gamely for third place. On and on to the growing roar of the excited watchers, hurdle after hurdle falling behind. Torrey well in advance now, but Keyes pushing him for every ounce of strength in his body. Two more hurdles left. Torrey is over! Keyes is over! A mad race for the final obstacle, Torrey again gaining on the flat, but Keyes, head back, feet twinkling, only a yard behind. Up again and over, almost side by side at the next stride. Then the dash to the string, Torrey, arms upthrown, breaking it a stride ahead of Keyes! Mount Morris shouts wildly and Grafton joins, for Ned Musgrave has beaten out his rival handily and again the points go five to Mount Morris and four to Grafton, and Mount Morris had been conceded first and third places!
Dud is a trifle comforted as he sinks back to his seat and scratches agitatedly with his stubby pencil. Barnes, munching chocolate philosophically, asks the score.
“Thirty-eight to thirty-four,” replies Dud.
“We’re a goner then.”
“We are not! Wait till the mile run comes off! Foster Tray will win that at a walk, and we may get second place too.”
“Yes, and Mount Morris will win the broad jump and the hammer.” Barnes pushes the last of the chocolate between stained lips and wipes sticky fingers on a dingy handkerchief. “Say, I wonder how the baseball game is coming out.”
“We’ll get licked. Here come the milers. Who’s the fellow in the blue and yellow bathrobe, Roy?”
“Milton. He ought to do pretty well. He ran fifth last year and they say he’s a lot faster now. I don’t see——”