Westby came up and stood near Irving, and fixed him with a whimsical
smile.

“Quite a new departure for you, isn’t it, Mr. Upton?” he said.

“I thought I’d come down and see if you can run as fast as you can talk,
Westby.” Irving drew out the revolver, somewhat ostentatiously.

“I hope you won’t shoot any one with that; it looks to me as if you
ought to be careful how you handle it, sir.”

“Thank you for the advice, Westby.” Irving turned from the humorist, and
raised his voice. “All ready for the mile now! On your marks! Set!”

He held the pistol aloft and fired, and the six runners trotted away.
There is nothing very exciting about the start of a mile run, and Irving
felt that the intensity with which he had given the commands had been
rather absurd. It was annoying to think that Westby had been standing by
and finding perhaps in his nervousness a delectable subject for mockery
and derision.

Irving walked down the track towards the finish line. He found Barclay
there holding the watch.

“You seem to be discharging your arduous duties successfully,” said
Barclay.

“Oh, so far.” Irving looked up the track; the foremost runners were
rounding the curve at the end of their first lap. He had a moment’s
longing to be one of them, stretching his legs like them, trying out his