prize--twenty-five dollars. See the red-head with the spikes--the
one next to the outside. San Francisco's set on him winning. He's
their crack, an' there's a lot of bets up."

"Who's goin' to win?" Mary deferred to Billy's superior athletic
knowledge.

"How can I tell!" he answered. "I never saw any of 'em before.
But they all look good to me. May the best one win, that's all."

The revolver was fired, and the five runners were off and away.
Three were outdistanced at the start. Redhead led, with a
black-haired young man at his shoulder, and it was plain that the
race lay between these two. Halfway around, the black-haired one
took the lead in a spurt that was intended to last to the finish.
Ten feet he gained, nor could Red-head cut it down an inch.

"The boy's a streak," Billy commented. "He ain't tryin' his
hardest, an' Red-head's just bustin' himself."

Still ten feet in the lead, the black-haired one breasted the
tape in a hubbub of cheers. Yet yells of disapproval could be
distinguished. Bert hugged himself with joy.

"Mm-mm," he gloated. "Ain't Frisco sore? Watch out for fireworks
now. See! He's bein' challenged. The judges ain't payin' him the
money. An' he's got a gang behind him. Oh! Oh! Oh! Ain't had so
much fun since my old woman broke her leg!"

"Why don't they pay him, Billy?" Saxon asked. "He won."