hand, while Morrill and Flack and Mason raced side by side to the tape.
They finished in that order, not more than a yard apart; and Irving
rammed his revolver into his pocket and clapped his hands and cheered
with the Corinthians.

The Pythians were now two points ahead, and there remained only one
event, the hundred yards. First place counted five points and second
place two; in these games third place did not count. So if a Corinthian
should win the hundred yards, the Corinthians would be victorious in the
meet by one point.

There were eight entries in the hundred yards—a large number to run
without interfering with one another. But the track was wide, and two of
the boys had handicaps of ten yards, one had five yards, and one had
three. So they were spread out pretty well at the start, and
consequently the danger of interference was minimized.

The runners threw off their dressing gowns and took their places. Drake,
Flack, Westby, and Mason lined up at scratch,—Westby having drawn the
inside place and being flanked by the two Pythians. There was a moment’s
pawing of the cinders, and settling down firmly on the spikes.

“Ready, everybody!” cried Irving. He drew the revolver from his pocket
and held it aloft. He was as excited as any of the runners; there was
the nervous thrill in his voice. “On your marks!” They put their hands
to the ground; he ran his eyes along them to see that all were placed.
“Set!” There was the instant stiffening of muscles. Then from the
revolver came a click. Irving had emptied the six chambers in starting
the other races, and had forgotten to reload.