“What I want to know,” observes Barnes, “is how we got five!”
Dud observes him in faint disgust. “Oh, I suppose they gave them to us! Don’t you think we can play ball at all?”
“I didn’t think we could hit that fellow Gibbs,” Barnes answers carelessly. “He’s a wonder, you know.”
“Well, even wonders have their off days. I guess Myatt had one today! Gee, eleven runs!”
“I’m just as well pleased I didn’t go, Baker. The crowd will be dead sore when they get back. It costs nearly two dollars to make that trip.”
“We’ve just simply got to get this meet,” mutters Dud. “We can’t get beaten all around today!”
“I’ve known it to happen,” says Roy unfeelingly. “Here they go! Must be two dozen of ’em!”
In truth there were exactly fourteen, about evenly divided between the two schools. They hustled away confusedly and went to the corner weaving in and out, slowing their strides. Four times around a quarter-mile track is no pleasure jaunt and they knew it. Foster Tray was well in the rear of the bunch and he stayed there as long as the pace suited him, but at the finish of the first lap he had crawled up to third place, with Towne, of Mount Morris, and Milton, of Grafton, leading in that order. The field was already strung out, for the pace had been fairly fast for the tyros. In the backstretch a Mount Morris youth sprinted from the center of the first bunch and swept into the lead, no one disputing him. But he lasted only to the beginning of the homestretch and when the leaders came past the stand again Towne was first and Tray second. Milton was back in fourth place, behind a teammate. Then came three Mount Morris fellows and, after them, a straggling line of pluggers.
The time was shouted to them as they went by, but there was too much shouting from the stand for Dud to hear it. At the next corner Milton hustled past the third runner and fell in behind Tray, and Grafton cheered that indication of pluck. But by the time the backstretch was once more ahead Towne and Tray were yards to the good and both Milton and the man behind him were losing ground. There was no sign of weariness shown by either of the leaders. Towne was running a fine, steady race and seemed well within himself. Tray, not so pretty a runner, looked to be tiring, but he kept his position to the fraction of an inch, a single stride behind his rival, his spikes hugging the rim closely. Around the corners they came, into the stretch, to a chorus of cheers and shouts and shrill yells of advice, entreaty and encouragement. The gong clanged its announcement of the final lap. Fifteen yards or so behind the two leaders came Milton, fighting doggedly to keep ahead of a Mount Morris youth but losing gradually. By this time the track showed tired contestants everywhere. Towne and Tray were already lapping the rear-guard.
Stride for stride, the green ribbon and the scarlet passed the turns and reached the backstretch. There was still no sign of a change of pace, no altering of the steady strides. Now they were half-way through the final circuit, moving together across the green turf like a single machine. But suddenly cries leapt from the watchers. Towne had started his sprint! Already a yard separated the two! And now it was a good two strides! They were rounding the third corner, heads back, digging for all they were worth! Tray was falling behind! The spectators in the stand were on their feet, hands outstretched and beckoning, lungs roaring forth shouts of triumph or of despair. Into the stretch the two white-clad figures swept. Surely Tray had pulled up again! He had! He was running stride for stride with the Mount Morris man! He was gaining! Why, there was nothing to it but Tray! What a sprint! Two yards between them now, three—four! And Tray still opening up daylight and the finish growing nearer and nearer! The stand was emptying, the audience piling down to crowd the track at the finish line. It was difficult to see now, but there was a head bobbing up and down a few yards away, and another——