Phil, in spite of the tax on his strength in his hard fought races, never felt in better trim. The earlier races assured him that his muscles had not deteriorated. As he stood with his body thrown forward, hands on the ground in front of him, he vibrated like a highly tempered spring. Every muscle was held in the leash, ready to be loosed by his will at the discharge of the pistol. He wished that he might be transformed into a knight of older times, horsed and about to “enter the lists” with his antagonist. How he would delight to see Lazar’s pride unhorsed beneath his charger’s feet. With these mad thoughts coursing through his brain he heard, as if from far away, the starter’s voice: “Are you ready?” “On your mark!” Then a pause, followed by a loud report. As if shot from a catapult, the lithe figures darted forward--breath held tightly, every face set with dogged determination. Phil saw Lazar dart two yards ahead of every competitor. It was an enormous handicap in his favor, for it precluded a chance of being pocketed either by accident or design. Phil strained his muscles to their utmost in an endeavor to free himself from the mass of threatening, surging runners. If each ran inside his chalk line all would be well, but on the sandy soil marks were indistinct. He held his breath a prisoner. His old trainer at Annapolis had taught him the trick. “A full breath at ‘on your mark’ and another thirty yards from the finish. It’s all the air you need,” were the words repeating themselves in his mind. His exertions were crowned by finding himself within a yard of Lazar. The next danger thundered three yards behind him. Swiftly they drew toward the finish. Lazar, running in his chalked lane, edged over inch by inch until he was directly in Phil’s path. The man behind had now drawn up so close to Phil that he could feel his hot breath in his ear. He knew him for the little sailor who had beaten him in the 440-yard run. Phil was now running on the left edge of the course. The runner behind him was in the line that had been Lazar’s. If Phil were not to be pocketed he must pass Lazar to his right and might thereby interfere with and perhaps foul the plucky little runner from the “Minnesota.” Phil knew that if the latter ran first or second the pennant would go to the sailor’s ship. In all its hideousness Lazar’s trick flashed before Phil’s eyes. Lazar would make him pocket the sailor or else be beaten by both men. With the eye of a runner he judged the time for his full breath and final spurt had come.