ushed his hair, which had been disarranged in the process of
undressing; he was like a cat in respect of his hair and could not
endure to have it rumpled. When it was parted and plastered down to his
satisfaction, he slipped a dressing gown on over his running clothes and
went out of doors.
The fall track meet was not of the same importance as that in the
spring, which was a scratch event. But there were cups for prizes, and
there was always much rivalry between the two athletic clubs, the
Corinthians and Pythians, as to which could show the most winners. So
for that day the football players rested from their practice; many of
them in fact were entered in the sports--though, like Collingwood,
without any special preparation. The school turned out to look on and
cheer; when Westby left the athletic house, he saw the boys lined up on
the farther side of the track. The field was reserved for contestants
and officials; already many figures in trailing dressing gowns were
wandering over it, and off at one side three or four were having a
preliminary practice in putting the shot.
But most of those who were privileged to be on the field stood at the
farther side, where the start for the mile run was about to take place.
Westby saw Randolph and Irving kneeling by the track, measuring off the
handicap distances with a tape line; Barclay walked along it, and
summoned the different contestants to their places. By the time that
Westby had crossed the field, the six runners were at their stations;
there was an interval of a hundred and forty yards between Collingwood,
at scratch, and young Price of the Fourth Form.
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
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