As he thought over Mott’s words he was half inclined to believe that the sophomore himself had been the cause of the unexpected change in the date of holding the games, and his feeling of anger and desire to win both became keener.  There was no time, however, afforded in which he might make preparations for the meet, and he must simply do his best under existing circumstances.  There was to be no burlesque or “horse play” in this contest, and the entire college would be on hand and interested to note the promise of the entering class in a department of college life that appealed strongly to all the students.  Even his new determination to push his work in his Greek harder than ever he had done and his feeling of homesickness did not in the day that intervened between the present and the day of the games prevent his interest and excitement from increasing during the passing hours.

Saturday afternoon finally arrived, clear and cool, an ideal day for the contest.  When Will stepped forth from the dressing-room, clad in his light running suit and with his bath robe wrapped around him, as he glanced over the track he could see that a crowd was already assembled.  The sophomores were seated in a body in one portion of the “bleachers,” and their noisy shouts or loud class cries rose steadily on the autumn air.  Opposite was the freshman class, but its members were still too unfamiliar with their surroundings and with one another to enable them to join in anything like the unison of their rivals.  In the grand stand were numbers of the members of the families of the faculty and the townspeople and visitors, and altogether the scene was one that strongly stirred Will and his room-mate, Foster Bennett, who also was to compete in the games.

Suddenly a loud, derisive shout arose from the sophomores, and Will glanced quickly up to discover its cause.  In a moment the cause was seen, when Peter John Schenck came running across the field toward the place where Will and Foster were standing beside a few of their classmates, who were also waiting for the game to begin.

The sight of Peter John was one that caused even Will and Foster to smile, for their classmate was dressed as if he too was about to become a contestant, and this was something neither of them had expected.  It was Peter John’s garb, however, which had so greatly delighted the beholders, for it was unlike anything to be seen upon the field—­“fearfully and wonderfully made,” as Mott, who had joined them for a moment, had expressed it.  Evidently it was the result of Peter John’s own handiwork.  His running trousers came to a place about halfway between his knees and ankles before they stopped, and were fashioned of coarse bagging or material very similar to it.  He wore no running shoes, but a pair of gray woolen socks, plainly “hand made,” provided a substitute.  His “running shirt” was a calico blouse which had at one time doubtless served him as a garment in which he had done the daily chores upon his father’s farm, but, as if to make matters still worse, a broad band of ribbon, the colors of the class, was diagonally fastened to his blouse in front, and Peter John’s fierce shock of bright red hair, uncut since he had entered Winthrop, served to set off the entire picture he presented.