“_On your mark!_” he cried. CHAPTER XXV THE LAST EVENT Eleven men had entered for the two-mile run, six from Robinson and five from Erskine. Of these, we know Ware, Conroy, and Hooker, wearers of the purple ribbon, and have just heard of Burns, the Brown’s crack long-distance runner. In view of the result of the race, it may be well to mention also Tammen, another Robinson entry, who, until to-day, had been viewed as a second-rater. For the others, they were big and little, fair and dark, and all with their spurs still to win. Taken together, they were a clean-built, healthy lot as they stood at the starting line, their white running pants and white shirts--the latter crossed by the purple ribbon or the brown and white--just tinged with saffron by the long rays of the setting sun. The starter glanced again at his pistol. “_Set!_” he cried. And as the runners put their weights forward and poised arms front and back, the pistol spoke and the spiked shoes bit at the cinders as the men strove for the inside of the track. The timers looked up from their watches and the group about the line broke up. Ten minutes--possibly a little less, perhaps a little more--must elapse before the result could be known and Erskine or Robinson could claim the meet. For by a freak of fortune each college had now 54 points to its credit, and final victory would go to that one whose colors first brushed the string at the finish. Whether the spring’s labor and planning was to be crowned with victory or draped with defeat depended on who won first place and its 5 points. A knowledge of this accompanied Allan all through the race, now spurring him on to determined effort, now casting him into the depths of hopelessness and despair. The meet depended upon him, and he wished with all his heart that it didn’t. For from the first instant he knew that he was not in a condition to do his best. He was aware of high-strung nerves and a general feeling of worry. For the latter there was no longer any reason; but reason or no reason, it remained. The last two days and their accompanying nights of unrefreshing slumber had had their effect. For the rest, his muscles were strong and supple, his lungs eager for their task. Half-way around the first lap he had secured the lead, none disputing it with him, and had settled down into that apparently slow pace which makes the two-mile event look so unexciting at the first. He knew himself capable of making that pace for the entire distance and finishing comparatively fresh, but he also knew that Burns, who was coming serenely along half-way back down the length of the string, could stand it quite as well, and could probably sprint in the last quarter mile and beat him out. He decided then to increase the pace, in the hope of wearing the Robinson crack out, yet knowing that to make too fast a race would finish him up just as surely as it would Burns.