At the turns, now and then, a backward glance revealed the confident face of Burns, while Hooker’s tortured breathing told its own tale. Either he must last out or Robinson would take second and third positions, as well as first. But he had grown fearful of his ability to do so, and on the sixth lap he eased up on his pace. And half-way down the back-stretch he wondered if he had not, after all, made a mistake in doing so. For Burns, refusing to slow down, had bested Tammen and Hooker and was apparently striving to pass Allan. But at the beginning of the next lap, the seventh, Allan saw that the supreme struggle was not yet, for Burns had slipped in behind him, apparently content to let him set the pace for a while longer. Then Hooker began to drop back. He had done his best, but his best was not good enough. Tammen passed him and ranged himself behind Burns, and these three, when the last lap began, were leading the field by sixty yards or more. As they swept by the finish the shouts of the spectators made a deafening roar in their ears. Allan had a dim vision of Pete leaping alongside the track at the first turn, near the tents, waving his long arms against the sunset glow and shouting unintelligible things. Once around that first turn, Allan shot a glance over his shoulder and his heart leaped. Unless he was very much mistaken, Burns had lost ground. That was Allan’s last turn of the head. From that time on it was merely a question of hugging the rim of the track and enduring the ache of limb and chest, doubting all the while his ability to hold his place and all the while determining to do it. He was right about Burns. That redoubtable runner had gone to pieces all in the minute. At the second turn he was plainly no longer dangerous to Allan, and back at the finish the throng roared its relief and delight. And while it was still shouting, Tammen shot around Burns and began to lessen the dozen or so yards between him and Allan. And Allan, hearing vaguely a new note in the voices across the field and the rapid pat of steps on the track behind him, guessed what was up and felt his heart sink. Here was a man who could sprint, something Allan had never been able to do satisfactorily, and here, in all probability, was the winner of the race! Those gazing obliquely across the oval saw Allan falter for a stride just at the farther turn, and their hearts sank. But after that first instant of what was something like terror, Allan pulled himself together. In his own words, it was up to him to win, and win he would, if only his breath would last that long. Tammen, three yards behind him, made no attempt to pass him at the turns, but kept himself in hand for the home-stretch. And Allan, grim and determined, weakening with every long gasp for breath, knew that when the track stretched straight before him to the distant white line the battle would really begin, and that in the length of that distance the meeting would be won or lost.