“Go it, Scott!” was the cry. “Beat ’em out! You can do it!”
The runners turned into the field with the Broadwood cheer ringing in their ears. By this time the group had lengthened to a procession, with Scott, the Broadwood crack, leading Goodyear, of Yardley, by a dozen feet. Then came Captain Maury and Arthur Thompson, and two Broadwood fellows close on their heels. Farther back Gerald was keeping a yard or so behind Jake Hiltz. He had found his second wind now and, although he was the youngest entry in the race, his form aroused several comments from the audience at the turn.
“Look at the kid,” said one fellow. “Gee, Yardley must be hard up for runners to put him in. Say, he can run, though, can’t he? Isn’t that a pretty stride of his? Wonder who he is.”
“That’s young Pennimore,” some one informed him. “John T.’s son. They say he will have more money than he will know what to do with when he grows up. The old man’s a multi-millionaire, whatever that is!”
“Well, he certainly has a pretty way of using his legs,” said a third, “kid or no kid.”
It wasn’t so easy now that they had the rough, frosty turf under foot, and soon they were taking a long hill. The stragglers began to drop farther behind. Between Scott and Goodyear and the next group the distance lengthened. Thompson had dropped back and two Broadwood runners and Wagner, of Yardley, had passed him. Hiltz and Gerald were well toward the last. Once Hiltz glanced back and saw Gerald behind him. “Hello, Miss Nancy,” he called over his shoulder. “Aren’t your little legs tired?” Gerald didn’t waste his breath answering. At the top of the hill Gerald looked back. The last half dozen fellows were strung out for an eighth of a mile, some of them, noticeably Norcross of Yardley, making hard work of the slope. A couple of stone walls had to be negotiated next and Arthur Thompson, who had fallen back to within a dozen yards of Gerald, tried to take the second one at a jump. His foot struck in going over, however, and he fell on the other side and measured his length in a patch of brambles. Gerald paused as he reached him. Arthur was climbing slowly and rather dazedly to his feet.
“Aren’t hurt, are you?” asked Gerald anxiously.
“No, but I’ve got a beast of a stitch in my side, Gerald. I’m afraid I’m out of it.” Arthur trotted along with his hand on his ribs. “That hill did it. I was all right until then.”
“Take it easy. Maybe you’ll get over it,” said Gerald. “Let’s move up; I don’t want Hiltz to get too much of a lead.”