Harvard secured the race with University of Pennsylvania, and though the result was not long in doubt, yet the crimson-clad runners were forced to better the record by three-fifths of a second. Then the clerk’s voice was heard at the dressing-room door: “All out for Erskine-Robinson Team Race! All out!” Of Erskine’s relay team, only Thatcher, the captain, was an experienced runner. The others--Poor, Gibbons, and Tolmann--had earned the right to represent the college at the trials, but for all of that were unknown quantities. They were all of them, Thatcher included, small men; Poor was little over five feet in height, and looked as though he had never had enough to eat. As they trotted around the track, getting warmed up, Robinson’s candidates overtopped them to a man. It was a big, long-limbed quartet that Robinson had sent, and had the result depended on height and length of leg alone the Brown would have had the race won at the start. Allan had secured a place near the front of the throng at the dressing-room door, and beside him, noticeable because of the evening clothes which he wore, was one of the officials, an inspector whose name was down on the program as “Horace L. Pearson, N. Y. A. C.” It was while the two teams were still warming up that Allan heard his name spoken, and turned to find Mr. Pearson in conversation with Harris. “Beg your pardon,” the inspector was saying, “but the man beyond you there is Ware, of your college, isn’t he?” But he wasn’t looking in Allan’s direction at all. “No, sir,” answered Harris, “that’s Rindgely.” “Sure of it?” “Quite, sir,” replied Harris, smiling. “Hm! I saw he was down on the card as Rindgely, but I thought maybe it was a mistake. What does the other man, Ware, look like?” “He’s here somewhere,” said Harris. And then his voice dropped and Allan, looking carefully away, felt the inspector’s gaze upon his face. He wondered what it might mean and why Rindgely had been mistaken for him, but his speculation was short-lived, for at that moment the pistol cracked and two runners, one with his white shirt crossed with a brown silk ribbon and the other bearing a purple E on his breast, sprang forward and fought for the lead at the first turn. The Erskine man was Thatcher and his opponent was named Guild. As they reached the other end of the track and sped past the dressing-room, conflicting shouts of encouragement from Erskine and Robinson supporters followed them. Thatcher had secured the pole at the start and had leaped into the lead at the turn. He was still ahead, but Guild was close behind him, his long strides seeming to be always on the point of taking him past, yet never doing so. Thatcher’s plan was plainly to hand over the race to the next runner of his team with a good, big margin of gain, trusting that, if unable to increase the advantage, the other Erskine men would at least hold what they had. But the big gain wasn’t forthcoming yet.