But even as Tommy hung back the judge looked up from the tape with a smile on his face. “Forty-five feet eleven inches!” he said. “_Oh, bully!_” cried Tommy. “But Tiernan----” “Huh!” said Pete. From across the field came the sharp report of the pistol sending the half-milers away, and as Pete and Tommy hurried to the tents the white-clad runners swept by in a bunch on the first of their two laps, Poor and Tolmann side by side in the lead, and Thatcher, Erskine’s main hope, running warily well toward the rear. Around the turns they went and entered the back-stretch, hundreds of voices urging them on. Allan, a depressed-looking figure in his dragging drab gown, met them as they crossed the track. There was no use asking him whether he had received the longed-for message; one glance at his face was sufficient. Pete took him aside out of the throng. “You’re going to run, Allan,” he said, in low tones, “so get warmed up. Now, don’t ask any questions, for I can’t answer ’em yet. Just do as I tell you. It’s all right; you’re going to run, and if you don’t win out I’ll--I’ll lick you!” The expression of hope which had at first leaped into Allan’s face died out again, but a look of curiosity remained. “What--what do you mean?” he asked, wonderingly. “Just what I say. You’re going to run, and if you want to do anything in the race get your muscles stretched. Let go of me; I’m in a hurry. Have you seen Nast?” “I’ve found him,” said Tommy, hurrying up. “He’s gone over to the finish. Here come the half-milers. Track, there!” Once more the runners sped past, but now they were no longer bunched together. In front, leading by half a dozen yards, ran Poor. Next came Thatcher, then a Robinson man, then Tolmann. Behind Tolmann the rest of the field pegged away, already out of the reckoning, barring accidents. “All out for the two miles!” bawled the clerk. Pete shot a glance at Tommy and the latter nodded. Together they turned away. “Get a move on, Allan,” cried Pete. “Don’t stand there like a wooden Indian!” Allan, his face expressing wonder and returning hope, slipped quickly out of his dressing-gown. “I guess you’re joking, Pete,” he said, “but----” “Is Mr. Ware here?” piped a shrill voice, and the blue-coated messenger boy pushed his way through the throng about the tents. “Telegram for Mr. Ware!” With a cry Allan turned and seized the envelope from the boy’s hands and tore it open. Under the gaze of dozens of curious eyes, he read the words on the still damp sheet of yellow paper and turned with exultant eyes to Pete and Tommy, who had paused at the edge of the track. “It’s all right!” he cried. “Where’s Nast?” And he sped off around the track. Tommy and Pete followed, and the latter, as he went, took a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocket and tore it into tiny pieces. “Hurry up for the two miles!” bawled the clerk again.