They were at the turn now, and the gathering darkness made it difficult to determine who was who. So the watchers gave their attention to the scratch-men and one or two stragglers who were bunched together half-way down the back-stretch. Rindgely and Hooker were close together, the latter putting his toes down squarely into the former’s prints. Both were running easily and with the consciousness of plenty of power in reserve. When the turn was begun they had gained slightly on the others near them and were about 120 yards behind the first bunch. The black-haired sophomore was still setting the pace when he crossed the mark again. Behind him at short intervals sped four others, and last in the group came the freshman with the long legs. The half-hundred spectators that remained were clustered close to the track near the finish and, in spite of chattering teeth, were displaying some enthusiasm. A junior named Harris who was running third was encouraged lustily, but most of the applause was reserved for the two cracks, Rindgely and Hooker; they were well known and well liked; besides, they were pretty certain to win, and it is always satisfactory to back the victor. “What’s this, the third lap?” Clarke asked, thumping his bare hands together. “Well, I’m going back; better come along, Walt. You’ll freeze here. If we’re going to have this sort of weather in October, I’d like to know what’s going to happen to us in December.” “Well, I guess I’ll go along,” Stearns said. “It surely is cold, and we know how this is going to end. There go Rindgely and Hooker now; watch ’em overhaul the bunch. If you see Ames, Billy, tell him I said he was to look me up to-night, will you?” “All right,” answered the trainer. “But you’d better see this out; there’s something in the way of a finish coming pretty quick.” “Why, what’s up?” asked the track-team captain, turning quickly to observe the runners. “Well, I don’t know for sure,” answered Kernahan, cautiously, “but the scratch-men aren’t going to get their mugs without a fight for them, I’m thinking.” “Who’s in the running?” Stearns asked, eagerly. Once more the first men were coming down the home-stretch. But now the order was changed. The black-haired sophomore was not in sight, but in his place sped Hooker, an easy, confident smile on his face. On his heels was Rindgely. Then came the junior, Harris, and beside him, fighting for the pole, was a little plump senior. Behind this pair and about five yards distant was the long-legged freshman. His head was held well, but his breathing was loud and tortured. Stearns looked each man over searchingly. Then he turned to the trainer. “Last lap! Last lap!” was the cry. “Say, Billy, you don’t mean Harris?” shouted Stearns when he could make himself heard. Kernahan shook his head. “Then who?” “Keep your eyes on Ware,” said the trainer.