Will Phelps was not so confident, but he turned eagerly to watch the other contestants.  Mott won his heat in ten two, each of two heats was won by an Alden man in the same time, and the fifth heat was won by a man from a smaller college of whom no one expected much and who was but slightly feared.

The mile run, the two mile run, and the half-mile were run off while the sprinters were waiting for their finals and the excitement became intense when it was known that the score of Winthrop and Alden was exactly the same.  Everything now depended upon the result of the finals in the hundred yards dash.

“Phelps, you must get it!” whispered Wagner whose face was as pale as that of the freshman.  Will did not reply and at once took his place beside his four competitors.

“On your marks!” called the starter, and the silence that rested over the field became intense.

“Get set!” A sigh seemed to rise from the assembly and all were standing.

“Go!” The crack of the pistol was heard and instantly the runners were speeding down the track.

The day was warm and Will Phelps could feel that his face was as wet as if he had plunged in the river.  Never in all his young life had he exerted himself as then.  The tread of the running feet on the track seemed almost like that of one man.  On and on they sped, no one looking to the right or left.  Whether he was winning or not, Will was unable to determine.  He knew that all five were “bunched,” for he could feel and hear the others near him.  The deafening shouts and the shrill calls and cries sounded faint and dim in his ears.  He could see the officials standing near the end of the course—­an end that seemed far away for all that the runners were so swiftly approaching.

Nearer and nearer the runners drew and the shouts increased in violence.  Every one in the assembly was standing erect and leaning forward, breathless with interest.  Fifteen, ten, then only five yards remained.  With one supreme effort Will darted ahead.  He felt the tape, and not knowing whether he had won or not he plunged into the outstretched arms of Wagner.

For a moment everything was dim about him and there was a sound as of a roaring in his ears.  Then above the din he heard the wild shout of the Winthrop boys and he heard Wagner say, “The cup’s ours, Phelps!  We’ve got it!  We’ve won it!”

“Was I first?” inquired Will simply.

“No, second.”

“I don’t see then.  Who did win?”

“Crafts from Tech was first and you were second and the Alden man third,” said Wagner hilariously.  “You put us two points ahead of Alden!  You’ve won your ‘W’ and we’ve got the cup!”

Before Will could respond a body of the Winthrop boys made a rush upon him and lifting him upon their shoulders advanced to the middle of the field followed by the entire body of their fellow-students.  Then in fantastic steps and winding column they marched about the field, singing their college songs and uniting in their college yell for the team and for Phelps again and again.  The interested spectators stopped and watched the proceedings until at last the team returned to their dressing rooms and the day was done.