“And one of them is coming,” said Dan excitedly. “It’s a Yardley runner, isn’t it, Tom? See his white shirt?”
“Yes, it’s a Yardleyite, all right,” Tom muttered.
“Sure?” asked Alf, trying to glimpse the distant road. “Then that makes our sixth man and the score is—by Jove, fellows! What do you think?”
“We don’t think; what is it? Are we ahead?”
“We’re just even; 39 to 39!”
“Oh, your score is crazy,” said Tom.
But Alf went over it, while Felder finished amid the plaudits of his schoolmates, and found it correct.
“That means, then,” commented Tom, “that we’ve got to get the next runner in or lose the shindig. I guess I’ll take a nap until the excitement’s over. I have a weak heart.”
“That’s right,” agreed Dan nervously, “this is sort of suspensous.”
“Whatever that may be,” added Alf. “Gee, I wish some one would come along and get it over. What time is it? How long will it take us to get back? What are they cheering about now?”