“Ware? Who the dickens is Ware?” asked Stearns. But the trainer was scattering the spectators from beside the finish, and so paid no heed. The stragglers were passing now and the crowd was speeding them along with announcements that the last lap had begun and with mildly ironical injunctions to “move up head” or “cut across the field.” Then all eyes were turned to the back-stretch, where the five leaders, survivors of a field of some fifteen, were racing along, dim whitish forms in the evening twilight. Hooker was setting a hot pace now, and the gaps were lengthening. But as the last turn was reached the figures changed their positions; some one dropped back; some one else moved suddenly to the front. But it was all a blur and the identity of the runners could be only surmised. “That’s Rindgely taking the lead, I guess,” said Stearns. “That means that Hooker’s to sprint the last fifty yards or so and get first. But I’d like to know who Ware is. Do you know?” Clarke shook his head. “Search me,” he answered. “Maybe it’s the long-legged chap. He’s still in the bunch, I think.” “Yes, but he was just about done up when the last lap was finished. Did you notice? He was gasping. Where’s Billy?” “Over there at the mark. He’s holding a watch; if you speak to him now he’ll jump down your throat. Here they come. Let’s move over here where we can see.” “Well, whoever’s in the lead is making a mighty painful pace for the finish of the mile,” exclaimed the captain. “Seems to me he’s ’way ahead, too!” “It isn’t Rindgely,” said Clarke, decisively. “It must be----” “Come on, Freshman!” cried a mighty voice at Clarke’s elbow, and a big broad-shouldered youth crashed by, sending the editor of the Purple reeling on to the cinders, from where he was pulled back by Stearns. Clarke glared around in search of the cause of his ignominious performance, and saw him standing, a whole head above the crowd, a few paces away at the edge of the track. He seemed to be quite unconscious of Clarke’s anger. Leaning out over the cinders, he was waving a big hand and bellowing in a voice that drowned all other cries: “Come on, Freshman! Dig your spurs in! _Whoo-ee!_” Clarke’s anger gave way to excitement. Down the home-stretch came the runners, sprinting for the mark. Stearns was shouting unintelligible things at his side and apparently trying to climb his back in order to see the finish. The throng was yelling for Hooker, for Rindgely, for Harris.