The contestants for positions on both teams had been tried out three days before, by a committee of men from the first class.  The sophomores had not been allowed to see the freshmen run at these trials.

The start was to be made at three o’clock on this Monday afternoon.  All the runners were now here, Reade and Dalzell having been among the last of the freshmen to come up.  It was ten minutes before three.

“Half of the freshmen are a pretty mucky looking lot, aren’t they?” asked Ripley, as he and Purcell, of the hares, strolled by.

“I hadn’t noticed it,” replied Purcell pleasantly.  “I thought them a clean and able looking lot of young fellows.”

“Humph!  A pretty cheap lot!  I call ’em,” rejoined Ripley.

Dick Prescott heard and flushed slightly.  He understood the allusion, coming from the source that it did.  But Dick was bent on making a good run this afternoon, and kept his temper.

“Hares on the line!” shouted Frank Thompson, finally.  He was to fire the shots that started the two teams, then was to run with the hounds to act as one of the judges of possible captures.

Purcell, who was captain of the hares, led his men forward to the line laid across the grass.  Just before they formed, the captain gave some whispered instructions.  Ben Badger was already at the line.  He was to run with the hares during the first five minutes, then give the final signal for beginning to scatter the paper trail.

“On the line there, quick!” called Thompson, watch in his left hand, pistol in his right.  “Ready!”

The hares, each with a bag of torn paper hanging over one hip, bent forward.

Crack!  At the report of the pistol the hares bounded forward.  In barely more than a minute afterwards they were out of sight.

Then followed some minutes of tedious waiting for the Gridley freshmen.

“Hounds to the line!”

Dick, who had been elected captain of the freshmen team, led his men forward on all easy lope.  Dick took his place at the extreme left of the pursuing line, with Tom Reade next to him; then Dan Dalzell.

“Ready!” A pause of a few seconds.  Crack!

The pistol sent the hounds away.  They did not attempt to run fast.  Captain Dick Prescott’s orders were against that.  The hounds moved away at an easy lope, for there were miles yet to be covered.  Six miles, in fact, is more than average High School boys of the lower classes can make at a cross-country jog.  A go-as-you-please gait was therefore allowed.  Either hare or hound might walk when he preferred.

But for the first five minutes the hounds, who divided into three squads almost immediately, moved along at an easy jog.  Every eye was alert for the first sign of a paper trail.  There were six upper classmen running with the hounds.  Ben Badger was somewhere ahead, hiding in order not to betray the trail.  But, when he had been passed, Badger would jump up and run with the hounds, making the seventh judge.