And ere the report had wholly died away the five runners were a quarter-way about the track on the first of the three laps constituting the two hundred and twenty yards. As they passed under the left side of the gallery the seniors leaned over in an endeavor to catch sight of them and urged their two heroes, Wharton and Milkam, with eager cries. Then the turn was made, and Trevor, glancing upward fleetingly, saw a long row of faces peering down with open mouths from which came shouts of “Nesbitt! Nesbitt!” “Dunlop! Dunlop!” A long banner of upper middle class colors writhed serpent-like above him, and then he was under the gallery, running swiftly. Now and then he caught a blare of a merry two-step from the hard-worked band. He glanced aside. Stewart was even with him, his face anxious and somewhat pale. Wharton, Milkam, and Dunlop were strung out behind, but all well in the race. Up in the gallery, on the left, sat Dick Hope among the seniors. Beside him were Williams and a stout, red-faced youth whose real name was Todd, but who was more generally known as “Toad.” Dick watched the runners circle the end of the building. “First lap’s done,” he said. “That roommate of mine, Nesbitt, seems to be something of a runner.” “Sure,” answered Todd, “’Is ’Ighness is all right, if he _is_ a bloody Englishman.” “I’d rather be English than Dutch, Toad,” grinned Williams. “Shut up, you; I’m no more Dutch than you are. Here they come! _Brace up, Wharton!_” and Todd leaned over the railing and waved his cap wildly in air. “You might as well save your breath, I guess,” said Dick. “Wharton’s out of it, and so’s Milkam. The race’s between Nesbitt and young Earle. And as we can’t win it, I hope Earle will. He’s a decent, plucky youngster; and--well, anything to beat upper middle, you know.” “You’re not very loyal to your chum,” grinned Williams. “He has no business being in the upper middle,” responded Dick calmly. “By Jove, look there!” Across the gymnasium the runners were speeding down the back-stretch, Trevor and Stewart, side by side, leaving the other three farther and farther behind at every step. Wharton and Milkam were practically out of it; Dunlop was ten yards to the bad, but running strongly and apparently still capable of retrieving his lost ground. At the turn Trevor hugged the inside of the track and Stewart, smaller, lither, and speedier-looking, snuggled in close behind him. Dunlop, head back, a look of grim determination on his face, spurted until he had gained a position but a scant two yards behind Stewart. “Good boy, Dunlop!” shouted Williams, while from across the building came a wild cry of joy from dozens of throats. “I guess that’s his last spurt,” muttered Dick; “he’s showing the pace.”