The four named answered by clumping on their spikes to the door.

A moment later came the Pythian call from Dennison; Collingwood and Morse responded.  The first event of the day was about to begin.  Westby leisurely brushed his hair, which had been disarranged in the process of undressing; he was like a cat in respect of his hair and could not endure to have it rumpled.  When it was parted and plastered down to his satisfaction, he slipped a dressing gown on over his running clothes and went out of doors.

The fall track meet was not of the same importance as that in the spring, which was a scratch event.  But there were cups for prizes, and there was always much rivalry between the two athletic clubs, the Corinthians and Pythians, as to which could show the most winners.  So for that day the football players rested from their practice; many of them in fact were entered in the sports—­though, like Collingwood, without any special preparation.  The school turned out to look on and cheer; when Westby left the athletic house, he saw the boys lined up on the farther side of the track.  The field was reserved for contestants and officials; already many figures in trailing dressing gowns were wandering over it, and off at one side three or four were having a preliminary practice in putting the shot.

But most of those who were privileged to be on the field stood at the farther side, where the start for the mile run was about to take place.  Westby saw Randolph and Irving kneeling by the track, measuring off the handicap distances with a tape line; Barclay walked along it, and summoned the different contestants to their places.  By the time that Westby had crossed the field, the six runners were at their stations; there was an interval of a hundred and forty yards between Collingwood, at scratch, and young Price of the Fourth Form.

Westby came up and stood near Irving, and fixed him with a whimsical smile.

“Quite a new departure for you, isn’t it, Mr. Upton?” he said.

“I thought I’d come down and see if you can run as fast as you can talk, Westby.”  Irving drew out the revolver, somewhat ostentatiously.

“I hope you won’t shoot any one with that; it looks to me as if you ought to be careful how you handle it, sir.”

“Thank you for the advice, Westby.”  Irving turned from the humorist, and raised his voice.  “All ready for the mile now!  On your marks!  Set!”

He held the pistol aloft and fired, and the six runners trotted away.  There is nothing very exciting about the start of a mile run, and Irving felt that the intensity with which he had given the commands had been rather absurd.  It was annoying to think that Westby had been standing by and finding perhaps in his nervousness a delectable subject for mockery and derision.

Irving walked down the track towards the finish line.  He found Barclay there holding the watch.

“You seem to be discharging your arduous duties successfully,” said Barclay.