“It was an accident, I tell you,” repeated Westby.

“If it was an accident, you oughtn’t to set him back,” said Drake, his
fellow Corinthian.

“It’s in the starter’s discretion,” spoke up Mason, the Pythian.

“The penalty’s a yard,” affirmed Irving.

Westby shut his lips tight and looked angrily contemptuous. Irving
measured the distance. “There,” he said, “you will start there.”

Westby took the place behind the others without a word.

“Ready now! On your marks!”

The pistol cracked, and this time they all got away safely, and Irving
raced after them over the grass.

From the crowd at the finish came the instant shout of names; out of the
short choppy cries two names especially emerged, “Flack! Flack! Flack!”
“Westby! Westby! Westby!” Those two were the favorites for the event.
Irving saw the scratch men forge ahead, and mingle with the handicap
runners; in the confusion of flying white figures he could not see who
were leading. But the tumult near the finish grew wild; arms and caps
were swung aloft, boys were leaping up and down; the red-haired Dennison
ran along the edge of the track, waving his arms; Morrill on the other
side did the same thing; the next moment the race had ended in a
tumultuous rush of shouting boys.