Time passed quickly, until at three o'clock all assembled on the field for the great expected sports. The day was glorious for them; a crisp, cold, sunny October day, with the air intensely clear and full of life. What a day and what splendid games, thought Clinton. And he cheered and shouted like a small boy, and was far less stately than the grave First Class fellows who called themselves "Sub-Freshmen" in a manner anticipatory of future dignities.
Firsts, Clinton found, counted ten; seconds, six; thirds, three, and fourths, one; and the contest between the two houses was as close as the greatest lover of sports could desire. And so it happened that when the two-hundred-and-twenty yard dash came off, the Master's House had won 78 points and Prescott House 80 points; and of the two favorites, "Skipper" Cunningham had won 44 and Bruce Campbell 41. It was admitted that this race would practically decide the day; for the few remaining points, it was fairly well settled in advance, would be equally divided between the various champions from the two houses.
"It's a good deal more exciting than a political campaign," said the Governor to his friend Toppan.
There was a half hush as the two rivals lined up for the famous event in the final heat—all the other competitors having fallen before them in the preliminary heats. Both Cunningham and Campbell were shapely formed youths, lithe and muscular, as each leaned far forward with his arms stretched out in the starting posture, waiting for the signal.
The pistol cracked and the two boys were off. By the time they had gone half the distance Campbell was leading by about eight feet. Suddenly he was seen to stagger and something appeared to fly off from his legs. He fell down upon the track and Cunningham darted by him with the race well in hand. As he went by, he looked to see what the matter was, and then suddenly stopped and turned around. His Prescott House followers held their breath in amazement, dismay, and confusion. Then the spectators saw what had happened. Campbell's running-shoe had become loose and the spikes had stuck in a clayey bit of soil, pulling the shoe off the foot, and causing Campbell's ankle to turn and throw him. Cunningham, panting for breath, walked up to Campbell as he rose slowly, and said, "Too bad, Bruce, old man; are you hurt?"
"No," said Campbell, "I got my wind a little knocked out. What did you stop for?"
"Oh, all right," said Cunningham; "then we'll start the race over again." And he walked down to the starting-line in a simple, unconcerned way.
And how the boys were cheering him,—even the Prescott House boys, though it was a great disappointment to them! The failure to win then might cost them both cups; and if Cunningham had won that race, both cups would have surely been theirs. But they cheered just the same.
The Governor turned to the Head Master. "By George!" he exclaimed, "that's a splendid piece of work. That boy is a boy to be proud of. Did you see, he had that race cold? It was a sure thing and he didn't choose to win it in that way."
Mr. Stoughton was looking proud and happy. "That's the kind of a boy he is," he answered; "and I believe," he added, with enthusiasm, "they all are, here."