still on the floor beside him. Ten minutes more and he would be on the track. Andrews came in from the "quarter." Every sporting editor in town had conceded the 'Varsity a first in this event. Josey Andrews had never lost a quarter-mile since he had been in college; he staggered now, though, and his face was dejected. He threw himself limply upon the table and drew shuddering, laborious breaths, while "Smoked" Joe tugged off his vest. The men who were waiting their events looked at him anxiously.
Suddenly, in a husky voice, he called: "Marshall!"
Bill jumped up and went across to him.
"I got my cork pulled. Best I could do was second. If you don't win, we lose."
"All out for the mile!" bellowed the caller.
Bill hurried to the door.
"Good luck, old man," someone called, but Bill hardly heard.
He stepped out of the dark room into the bright sunshine. The light, the cheers, and the fierce blare of rival 'Varsity bands struck him like a blow. His knees shook as he jogged across the field. His breath came hard, as if he had run a long way. As he neared the starting-line, the stands resolved themselves from a black mass into a sea of faces with crested waves of color.
Bill squatted cross-legged on the grass and adjusted his shoes, tying the laces with great care. Then he drew his bathrobe closer and analyzed the crowd. To the right of the line, a blue splotch of banners marked the Mishington section. Mishington was the 'Varsity's great athletic rival. Dean was Mishington's hope in the mile, and even now, here and there in the blue phalanx, cries as to what he would do to the others spurted out. These were directed at the Madison crowd, who sat next to them. Madison retorted by derisively calling Mishington's attention to the fact that Halloran was entered in the mile, too.
"With Halloran
We'll tie a can
To Mishington,"
they sang.
The 'Varsity's own section was next to Madison, and right on the line. The boys were not entering into the cat-calling of Mishington and Madison, but but silently, with tense faces. The cheer leaders leaned idly on their big megaphones.
"I guess the boys feel pretty blue over Andrews getting his cork pulled. Looks like we'd lost the meeting," Bill muttered.
He felt detached, like some utterly unprejudiced observer. A hand on his shoulder recalled him. The coach was standing over him. His mouth was drawn down a bit at the corners, and his face was grim.
"Time to get on the track, Marshall," he said. "Now, just remember this mile will be won in the last hundred yards."
The hand on Bill's shoulder tightened and then gave him a little push, as he rose and stepped toward the track.
A long yell thundered from the Mishington stands as Dean limbered up in a jog down the cinder-path. The Madison boys took it
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up like an echo as Halloran followed him. Bill came close behind Halloran. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the lolling cheer-leader straighten up, signal the yell number to his lieutenants, and then bellow his hoarse instructions to the stands.
"All up: all up! One! Two! Three!" Bill heard, and then the old 'Varsity yell, with his name at the end, split the air.
A grim determination stiffened him as he trotted back to the start.
From the runners grouped around the tape. Bill picked out Dean, in a blue jersey, and Halloran, in the bright red of Madison. Someone with a paper and pencil rushed past him and began to call numbers and names.
