They jumped down and hurried over to the finish line.
“Here they come!” some one cried, and there was a rush for places of observation. Andy Ryan got his pencil ready and handed his stop watch to Alf.
“Take the time of the first three,” he directed.
“Track! Track!” The first runner trotted down the road looking rather fagged and as the trainer set his name down he crossed the line and staggered tiredly into the arms of a friend. He was Goodyear, a Second Class fellow. Fifty yards behind three runners were fighting hard for second place. They finally finished within ten feet of each other and Ryan entered their names: Henderson, Wagner, French. Two minutes passed before the next man came into sight.
“That’s young Thompson,” said Alf. “He doesn’t look as though the distance had troubled him much, does he? Good work, Thompson! See anything of Pennimore up the line?”
“Yes,” answered Arthur Thompson as he joined them, breathing hard but seemingly quite fresh after his three-mile spin. “I passed him about a mile back. He looked pretty fit, Loring, and I guess he’ll finish. I hope he does.”
Four boys came down the road well bunched and there was a good-natured struggle for supremacy as they neared the waiting group. “Norcross, Maury, Felder, Garson,” called Andy Ryan as they crossed the line. “Don’t stand around here, byes; go home and get a shower right off.”
“That’s nine,” said Alf. “Any more in sight? If Gerald doesn’t finish one of the next three he’s dished. Here’s another chap now. It isn’t Gerald though, is it?”
“No, that’s not Gerald,” said Tom. “It’s—What’s-his-name?—Sherwood, of your class, Dan.”
“Yes, I know him. Good for you, Sher! You’ve got a dandy color!” Sherwood grinned as he trotted by. There was another wait and then another runner came into sight at the turn, and a second later two more, running side by side.