here 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.

"Just a moment, fellows; ease off!" he called, and they all straightened
up and faced towards him questioningly. "Just till I slip in a
cartridge," Irving explained with embarrassment.

Westby turned on him a delighted grin, and said,--

"Can I be of any assistance, Mr. Upton?"

"No, thank you," said Irving, and having slipped in one cartridge, he
began filling the other chambers of the revolver.

"It takes only one shot to start," observed Westby.

"Yes," said Irving. "If I fire a second, it will be to call you back
because of a false start.--Now then,--all ready once more. On your marks!"
They crouched. "Set!" He fired.

Somehow in the start Westby's foot slipped, and in trying to get clear
he lunged against Flack. Irving saw it and instantly fired a second
shot, and shouted, "Come back, come back!" The runners heeded the signal
and the shout, but as they tiptoed up the track, they looked irritated.

"Westby, you fouled Flack." Irving spoke with some asperity. "I shall
have to set you back a yard."

"It was an accident," Westby replied warmly. "My foot slipped. I
couldn't help myself."

"But it was a foul," declared Irving, "and I shall have to set you back
a yard."

"It was an accident, I tell you," repeated Westby.

"If it was an accident, you oughtn't to set him back," said Drake, his
fellow Corinthian.

"It's in the starter's discretion," spo