passed him. It was rather an unfeeling thing for Collingwood to do,
right there in front of the crowd, but he was driven to it by force of
circumstances; the four other runners were holding on in a way he did
not like. The cries of encouragement to him and to Heath were more
urgent this time; Bolton and Edwards and Morse had their supporters too.

Westby ran along the field beside Price, and Irving felt a moment’s
indignation; was Westby taunting the plucky and exhausted small boy? And
then Irving saw that he was not, and at the same instant Barclay turned
to him and said,—

“Price is Westby’s young cousin.”

Irving stood near enough to hear Westby say, “Good work, Tom; you set
the pace just right; it’ll kill Collingwood. Now drop out.”

Price shook his head and kept on; Westby trotted beside him, saying
anxiously, “There’s no use in your wearing yourself all out.” But Price
continued at his determined, pounding trot.

“He’s a plucky kid,” said Barclay.

“Rather nice of Westby to take such an interest,” said Irving.

Barclay nodded. From that point on it became a close and interesting
race, yet every now and then Irving’s eyes strayed to the small figure
toiling farther and farther to the rear—but always toiling. Westby stood
on the edge of the green oval, not far away, and when on the third lap
Heath came by in the lead, ran with him a few moments and shouted advice
and encouragement in his ear; he had to shout, for all the Corinthians