"Dean, number three; Halloran, number nine!" he cried.
Then a dozen other entrants.
"Marshall, number seventeen."
"Here!" shouted Billy, frightfully worried lest he be overlooked.
A far-away voice droned something about a pistol-shot at the last lap. They were in line now.
"Get on your marks!"
Billy seemed hemmed in by rank on rank of crouching figures. He touched elbows with the entrant of some fresh-water college down the State.
This man thrashed his arm and growled fretfully.
"Can'cher gim'me some room?"
Bill began to think that the starter had forgotten them.
"Get ready!"
Another year of waiting. He shook like a man in a chill; his muscles ached, and he held his breath. The man from the fresh-water college sprawled nervously to his knees.
"Bang!"
Blindly, with elbows flying, Bill leaped into his stride. lie drew his breath in choking gasps and held it as long as he could. His mouth was dry and wouldn’t stay shut, his trained lungs soon began to work naturally, however, the beat of his feet grew mechanical, the fog before his eyes dissolved, and he found himself sliding round the first turn of the track.
Just in front of him bobbed a blue jersey.
"That's Dean," muttered Bill. Farther ahead, be saw another blue jersey.
"Their other man is setting the pace for him and setting it fast,” he reasoned. "Oh, well, this mile'll be won in the last hundred yards. I'll just stick."
As they swung into the straight and ended the first lap, a roaring filled his ears, and he knew dully that the crowd was cheering. They rounded the turn again and kept on up the back stretch. Bill was running like a machine. His mind was concerned with nothing but following those two blue jerseys. For some time he had faintly heard a low "pad, pad" behind him. All at once it grew louder and resolved itself into the thud of a runner's feet. A hand, then an arm, then a head and shoulders came into his range of vision. They were passing the stands for the second time, and the roar of the crowd was in his ears again. The other runner had drawn slowly past him and shut off his view of Dean. He recognized the red jersey of Halloran. Bill drew himself together to spurt hotly and pass this hateful red jersey, but a still voice within him kept calling, "Keep cool, keep cool! Remember, this mile will be won in the last hundred yards," and he stuck doggedly to his stride. A blue jersey fell back to the red one. Dimly Bill saw a figure with wobbly knees and pumping arms. Then he ranged alongside and the figure dropped back out of sight.
"Dean's pacemaker," he gritted.
A great wave of weariness rolled over him. Each step became a separate effort. His eyes came back to the red jersey in front of him. It rose and fell with machine-like precision. No weariness there! Then the still voice within him said: "He's probably as tired as you are. Keep on! you're not yellow."
An immense sense of irritation filled him. He felt that he was being badly treated. The red back in front of him had turned into a lamp at the rear of a train. What good did it do him to be running down the track after it? He never could catch it.
"Bang!"
The jarring report rings in Billy’s ears. It brings him to himself. Everything clears up. He is in a race and there is only one more lap to go. That red spot is not a lamp. It is Halloran, and Dean is up in front somewhere. If he can catch the red jersey, maybe he can see him. His legs ache and it hurts to breathe, but he spurs himself on. He is gaining on the red jersey. It does not rise and fall mechanically any more. Now it is beside him, and he catches a glimpse of a white face and an open mouth as it slips behind. Only one head! What does Dean look like? Oh, yes, a blue jersey. He turns it over in his brain till his head aches.
An unusual ounce of strength comes into play. He plunges forward. No blue jersey to be seen. His knees begin to wobble and his elbows are working like pump-handles. He closes his eyes. His feet slip and turn. Dimly he thinks he must be running in sand. Why not sit down and rest? How quiet it is! Suddenly the peaceful quiet is shattered by a shrill girlish voice: "O Billy, Billy!"
Billy opens his eyes dazedly. Right in front of him bobs a hazy blot of color. It doesn't burst like the other blots. He draws every muscle together in a last effort to leave this awful thing behind. It is close at hand now, right at his shoulder. Then it disappears and he is alone. He sees the track at his feet. It flies up toward him, he dodges to escape being hit, and then all goes black.
***
The next thing Billy knew, someone was shaking him and trying to make him wake up. He didn't want to; but finally he opened his eyes. Fellows were crowding round him and trying to shake his hand. What for, he wondered! High over the noise about him came the 'Varsity yell, with his name three times on the end.
Then Billy understood; but he only grinned and said to himself:
"Alice, I'll have to go round to see you and let you get a little more practice on the Mr. Marshall business. You clean forgot it the last hundred yards."
"I tell you,” said the young sub-editor of a local paper, "that the editor isn't in, and I'm not going to tell you again. If you have anything for him you can leave it with me."
"Very well," said the caller, taking off his coat. "I came in to give him a good sound thrashing, but I'll give it to you instead."
Two next-door neighbors quarrelled, and one of them exclaimed excitedly:
"Call yourself a man of sense! Why, you are next door to an idiot."
"Did you find it expensive at the seaside?"
"Very; even the tide was high."
