“He’s a plucky kid,” said Barclay.

“Rather nice of Westby to take such an interest,” said Irving.

Barclay nodded.  From that point on it became a close and interesting race, yet every now and then Irving’s eyes strayed to the small figure toiling farther and farther to the rear—­but always toiling.  Westby stood on the edge of the green oval, not far away, and when on the third lap Heath came by in the lead, ran with him a few moments and shouted advice and encouragement in his ear; he had to shout, for all the Corinthians were shouting for Heath now, and the Pythians were shouting just as loudly for Collingwood, who, pocketed by the two other Corinthians, Bolton and Edwards, was running fifteen yards behind.  Morse, the only Pythian to support Collingwood, was hopelessly out of it.

Westby left Heath and turned his eyes backward.  His cousin came to the turn, white-faced, and mouth hanging open; the crowd clapped the boy.  “Quit it, Tom!” cried Westby.  “Quit it; there’s no sense—­” but Price went pounding on.  Westby stood looking after him with a worried frown, and then because there was a sudden shout, he turned to look at the others.

There, on the farther side of the field, Collingwood had at last extricated himself from the pocket; he was running abreast of Bolton; Edwards had fallen behind.  Heath was spurting; Collingwood passed Bolton, but in doing so did not lessen Heath’s lead—­a lead of fully fifteen yards.  So they came to the last turn, to the long straight-away home-stretch; and the crowd clustered by the finish broke and ran up alongside the track to meet them.  Every one was yelling wildly—­one name or another—­“Corinthian!” “Pythian!” “Heath!” “Collingwood!”

Barclay ran across the track with one end of the tape,—­the finish line; Mr. Randolph held the other.  “Collingwood!  Collingwood!” rose the shout; Irving, standing on tiptoe, saw that Collingwood was gaining, saw that at last he and Heath were running side by side; they held together while the crowd ran with them shouting.  Irving pressed closer to the track; Westby in his dressing gown was jumping up and down beside him, waving his arms; Irving had to crane his neck and peer, in order to see beyond those loose flapping sleeves.  He saw the light-haired Collingwood and the black-haired Heath, coming down with their heads back and their teeth bared and clenched; they were only fifteen yards away.  And then Collingwood leaped ahead; it was as if he had unloosed some latent and unconquerable spring, which hurled him in a final burst of speed across the tape and into half a dozen welcoming arms.  Heath stumbled after him, even more in need of such friendly services; but both of them revived very quickly when Mr. Barclay, rushing into the crowd with the watch, cried, “Within eight seconds of the record!  Both of you fellows will break it next June.”