were shouting for Heath now, and the Pythians were shouting just as
loudly for Collingwood, who, pocketed by the two other Corinthians,
Bolton and Edwards, was running fifteen yards behind. Morse, the only
Pythian to support Collingwood, was hopelessly out of it.

Westby left Heath and turned his eyes backward. His cousin came to the
turn, white-faced, and mouth hanging open; the crowd clapped the boy.
“Quit it, Tom!” cried Westby. “Quit it; there’s no sense—” but Price
went pounding on. Westby stood looking after him with a worried frown,
and then because there was a sudden shout, he turned to look at the
others.

There, on the farther side of the field, Collingwood had at last
extricated himself from the pocket; he was running abreast of Bolton;
Edwards had fallen behind. Heath was spurting; Collingwood passed
Bolton, but in doing so did not lessen Heath’s lead—a lead of fully
fifteen yards. So they came to the last turn, to the long straight-away
home-stretch; and the crowd clustered by the finish broke and ran up
alongside the track to meet them. Every one was yelling wildly—one name
or another—“Corinthian!” “Pythian!” “Heath!” “Collingwood!”

Barclay ran across the track with one end of the tape,—the finish line;
Mr. Randolph held the other. “Collingwood! Collingwood!” rose the shout;
Irving, standing on tiptoe, saw that Collingwood was gaining, saw that
at last he and Heath were running side by side; they held together while
the crowd ran with them shouting. Irving pressed closer to the track;
Westby in his dressing gown was jumping up and down beside him, waving
his arms; Irving had to crane his neck and peer, in order to see beyond
those loose flapping sleeves. He saw the light-haired Collingwood and
the black-haired Heath, coming down with their heads back and their