smothering the whirring alarm clock with the bed-clothes and debating whether to get up for breakfast or take just one more nap. Breakfast won, and he struggled sleepily into his clothes.
Later, he strolled down the street to the Union, where a big crowd always congregated before a meeting. The lobby was filled with a swaying, chattering mass of students. He elbowed his way through them, glancing this way and that for a familiar face. Suddenly a voice at his elbow held his attention.
"Marshall ought to win the mile, don’t you think?"
Another voice answered: "Marshall? Ha, ha! Why, man, he's no more in the class with Halloran or Madison and Dean of Mishington than I am! He won't last the first three-quarters. On the quiet, Dean says he's going out for the Intercollegiate record today, and if he does you watch something drop."
"Is that so?" said the first voice, with respect in its tones.
Billy longed to see who had spoken, but shame held his neck as stiff as a ramrod. So he was outclassed, wouldn't last the first three-quarters! Well, it was true! He couldn't run. He'd never get out another year. The coach probably wouldn't want him, anyway. He pushed his way out of the hotel and walked up the street. It was an ideal day for the Intercollegiate; sunny, cool, and with no wind to mar record-breaking. Already, though it was only ten o'clock, the streets were thronged. Tin horns blared, colors waved, and college yells rent the air wherever any number of students assembled. A wave of nervous fear submerged Bill. He saw himself distanced at the end of the first three-quarters, and heard a great cruel roar of laughter from the stands. He had seen that happen once when he was in the junior school, and the memory of it still lingered. He saw himself giving up at the last sprint and crawling off the track a "quitter" and a disgrace to his university.
Unconsciously his steps had turned toward his own house, and now before he realized it he was before the very door. He hesitated, debating whether he had better go in or slink away. Just as he was deciding that they were already ashamed of him, one Riley burst out of the door, and taking the front steps at a leap, almost knocked him down.
"Well, look who's here! Bill the Athlete, by George!" exploded Riley, and then, turning to the house, he yelled:
"Hey, fellows, here's Bill, the man that’s goin' to win the mile today."
The fellows streamed out and surrounded Billy.
"Nine long ones for Bill!" cried Riley. "Now boys, One! Two! Three!"
The old yell sent a thrill through Billy's blood. The fellows hammered his back, congratulating him on his victory in advance, for they took it for granted he would win, and when he protested that he had no chance, they only laughed. Gradually, he began to feel inspired. Of course he would win with the best old 'Varsity in the world back of him! He must! He would run today as he had never run before. What was two seconds? He could make that up in the first half-mile. He'd show them whether he’d last three-quarters or not, and Dean would have to run right down to the tape if he set a new record.
During the light noon meal at training quarters Marshall was preoccupied. He did not see the tense, strained faces of some of his team-mates or notice the over-boisterous unconcern of others. He was too busy mapping out how he would run his race to beat Dean. The running of this mile had become a personal matter between him and the Mishington star.
The meeting was half over. The sprints and hurdles had gone according to anticipations. Carston had fallen down in the weight and only taken second, but good old "Legs" Meeker had won the high jump when he was only expected to get third.
Bill sat on the floor of the dressing-room with his back against a locker. His skin burned from the rubber's hard hands; but in spite of that he shivered and sunk his chin into the collar of his bathrobe. For the hundredth time he made sure that his spiked shoes were
There is only one more lap to go
