thian!" "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
teeth bared and clenched; they were only fifteen yards away. And then
Collingwood leaped ahead; it was as if he had unloosed some latent and
unconquerable spring, which hurled him in a final burst of speed across
the tape and into half a dozen welcoming arms. Heath stumbled after him,
even more in need of such friendly services; but both of them revived
very quickly when Mr. Barclay, rushing into the crowd with the watch,
cried, "Within eight seconds of the record! Both of you fellows will
break it next June."

The other runners came gasping in--and Price was still toiling away in
the rear. He had been half a lap behind; he came now into the
home-stretch; the crowd began to laugh, and then more kindly, as he drew
nearer, to applaud. They clapped and called, "Good work, Price!" Westby
met him about fifty yards from the finish and ran with him, saying,
"You've got to stick it out now, Tom; you can't drop out now; you're all
right, old boy--lots of steam in your boiler--you'll break a record yet."
Irving caught some of the speeches. And so Westby was there when Price
crossed the line and collapsed in a heap on the track.

It was not for long; they brought him to with water, and Westby knelt by
him fanning his face with the skirt of his dressing gown. Barclay picked
the boy up. "Oh, I'm all right, sir," said Price, and he insisted on
being allowed to walk to the athletic house alone,--which he did rather
shakily.

Westby flirted the cinders from the skirt of his dressing gown. "Blamed
little fool," he remarked to Carroll and to Allison, who stood by.
"Wouldn't his mother give me the dickens, though, for letting him do
that!" But Irving, who heard, knew there was a ring of pride in Westby's
voice--as if Westby felt that his cousin was a credit to the