The Purple exceeded expectations in the broad jump, allowing her rival but 1 point. In the high jump, however, she didn’t show up so well; Robinson took first and third places. After the 220 yards hurdles, which, as has been already told, were won by Brooks, Erskine securing but 1 point, the score was heavily in the Brown’s favor, 45 to 36. By this time the afternoon had worn well toward sunset. Only the shot-put, the 880 yards run, the pole-vault and the two miles remained. Of these, Robinson was conceded 8 points in the pole-vault, 5 in the shot-put and 1 in the 880. It was difficult to see how Erskine could pull out of the meet ahead. In fact, it was evident that she couldn’t. Even Tommy, normally optimistic, had lost hope. While the competitors in the hurdles were trotting off to the tents he hurried across to where the shot-putters were at work. As he approached, six of the nine candidates were donning their dressing-gowns, and he knew that the trials were over and that the six were out of it. Then he pursed his lips and whistled softly. Of the three competitors remaining for the finals, two were Erskine men, Monroe and--yes, the other was Pete! The Robinson candidate was Tiernan, who had won first in the hammer throw. Pete hailed Tommy and drew him aside. “Have you got that paper safe?” he asked. “Yes.” Tommy reassured him by allowing a corner of it to peep forth from his inside pocket. Pete nodded and glanced toward the tent. “For goodness’ sake, don’t lose it,” he said. “And keep a watch for the two miles. We’re not through here yet and I don’t want the scheme to slip up.” “All right. And say, Pete!” “Yep?” “Do your best, old man, won’t you?” begged Tommy. “They’re ’way ahead of us, but if we get first and third out of this we may have a fighting chance.” “Well, we’ll see,” said Pete, untroubled. “I’ve got Monroe dead to rights, anyway.” “Yes, but beat Tiernan, Pete; we’ve _got_ to win!” “Well, just as you say, Tommy,” answered Pete, smiling at the other’s look of tragedy. “For your sake, Tommy, I’ll do my best.” “Burley!” called the field judge, and Pete drew his sweater off and stepped into the ring. There were three competitors remaining, and each was allowed three tries, the best of which was to count. Pete picked up the shot, took up his position at the rear of the circle, placed the weight in his broad right hand, threw his left arm out to balance him, raised his left foot from the ground, and then, with a motion that was neither hop nor glide, reached the front of the circle, brought his right shoulder smartly round and sent the weight flying. The measurer started to lay the end of the tape where the shot had struck, but stopped at judge’s announcement. “Foul,” said the latter. “You overstepped, Burley.” Pete nodded carelessly and donned his sweater again. Kernahan, who had approached during the try, beckoned to him, and they stepped aside.