“Same with me,” said Alf. “But maybe we’ll have a crack at each other in college, Mills. You’re for Princeton, I suppose?”
“Yes, if I pass! You going up to Yale?” Alf nodded.
“Same ‘if.’”
“Well, good-by,” said Mills, nodding. “Some of those runners ought to be turning up pretty soon, I suppose.”
“He’s a mighty decent chap,” mused Alf, when the visitor had strolled away toward where the Broadwood contingent was grouped at the finish. “Wonder why we didn’t get him at Yardley.”
“You can’t have all the good things,” murmured Tom. “You’ve got me, you know.”
“Yes, I do know it, you old chump.” There was a cry from a youth who was watching the road from the vantage point of a tree limb and the trio scrambled to their feet, rescued their sweaters and pushed their way through the crowd which was struggling for positions along the road.
“There they come!” was the cry. “Two of them!”
“That’s Scott!” shrieked a Broadwood youngster.