It was evident, soon after the start of the race, that it lay between Tom Parsons, Langridge of Boxer Hall and Sam Wendell of Exter. That was unless some of those who were strung out behind them should develop unexpected speed. And this was not likely.
A mile run is a matter of only seven minutes, or thereabouts, at the worst, for any performance slower than seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds scores nothing under the A. A. U. rules. And so the decision of the contest could not be long in doubt.
At the conclusion of the half mile Tom and Langridge were on even terms. The foremost Exter lad had fallen back a few feet, and Tom’s only fear was lest this contestant might be saving himself for a winning spurt.
“But I can spurt too!” thought our hero. “I’m going to win! I’m going to win!”
On and on they raced. Nearer and nearer to the goal they came. Breaths were coming faster and faster. It became harder and harder to get air into the laboring lungs. The weary muscles needed more and more urging to make them do their work.
“Can I do it? Can I do it?” Tom asked himself.
There was a mist before his eyes, and yet through it he seemed to see a fair, girlish figure waving a maroon and yellow flag at him. But the colors were blurred.
A singing came into Tom’s ears. It sounded like the beating of the waves of the sea. His heart was a pump, working at double speed. His legs were like the pistons of some engine, darting back and forth. They did not seem to belong to him, but to be separate from his body.
Once or twice he thought of looking down, to make sure that they were fast to his trunk, but he knew he must keep his eyes ahead of him, and his head well up. Now and then he glanced across to where Langridge was running. The Boxer Hall lad was still in his place, even with Tom. The foremost Exter runner was still lagging behind.
“I’ve got to shake him off--shake Langridge,” thought Tom, and it seemed as if he was someone else saying this.
The finish tape loomed in sight. The eager judges and timekeepers crowded to the course. Now was the time to spurt if ever.
“Come on, Tom! Come on!” yelled scores of encouraging voices, and once more Bean Perkins and his cohorts sang a song of victory.