“White Wings just flew the coop, and landed the first prize!” whooped a wild Clifford enthusiast, as he jumped up and down in his excitement. “And we’ve got a few surprises like Coddling up our sleeve, Columbia!” cried a second proud student, who wore the colors of the down-river school. “He did carry it off, sure as anything!” remarked Lanky, feeling a little discouraged. “And I thought our man, Paul Bird, had a sure thing.” “Paul entered in the wrong class there,” remarked Frank. “Just wait till you see him run in the hundred-yard race, and the quarter-mile. They’ve got them so scattered that he can rest up good, between each one. Didn’t you notice that while the Clifford fellow went like the wind at first, Paul was cutting down his lead in great shape when they crossed the line?” “That’s a fact, Frank,” admitted Lanky. “If that race had been twice as far, Paul would have had him easily beaten. Well, let Clifford roar all she wants, right now; perhaps the poor thing won’t have another chance to whoop it up all day.” “She generally does get it in the neck, somehow, before the end comes,” admitted Lanky. “There never was such luck, the Clifford boys say. But, all the same, Frank, they are talking loud about what they’re going to do to us in that long run.” “They’re welcome to say what they please,” the other remarked, calmly. “Talk is cheap, and boasting hurts no one but those who carry it to excess. The proof of the pudding is in the eating thereof. We’ll talk less, and _do_ something, Lanky.” “That’s the stuff, fellows!” cried a Columbia boy who happened to be passing, and caught the last few words of what Frank said. “There comes the new Clifford runner, who’s going to make us look like thirty cents, they say. What’s his name, Frank; did you notice it on the program?” Lanky asked. “Larry Parker,” Frank replied; “and I rather think he’s coming right over now to take a look at the three Columbia fellows who will be against him in that race. Of course he’s heard a heap about your doings on Saturday; and he means to size you up. We’ll have to be agreeable to him, remember, Lanky. This is our ground, and to-day Clifford and Bellport are our guests.” “Sure thing,” muttered the tall lad, eyeing the approaching runner; who had a large “C” on his sleeveless shirt to indicate to which school he belonged, just as if the colors he sported would not do that. Evidently Larry Parker was somewhat of a breezy sort, for he came up to the two Columbia boys, whom he had never met before, and extended his hand. “Hello! fellows!” he exclaimed. “I’m told that this is Frank Allen, and Lanky Wallace, two of Columbia’s star long-distance runners. And as I’m entered in that little jaunt myself this afternoon, with a few foolish Clifford boys thinking I’ve got a fighting chance to win, thought I’d like to know you a little, before I see the last of you over my shoulder.”