The runners threw off their dressing gowns and took their places. Drake, Flack, Westby, and Mason lined up at scratch,—Westby having drawn the inside place and being flanked by the two Pythians. There was a moment’s pawing of the cinders, and settling down firmly on the spikes. “Ready, everybody!” cried Irving. He drew the revolver from his pocket and held it aloft. He was as excited as any of the runners; there was the nervous thrill in his voice. “On your marks!” They put their hands to the ground; he ran his eyes along them to see that all were placed. “Set!” There was the instant stiffening of muscles. Then from the revolver came a click. Irving had emptied the six chambers in starting the other races, and had forgotten to reload. “Just a moment, fellows; ease off!” he called, and they all straightened up and faced towards him questioningly. “Just till I slip in a cartridge,” Irving explained with embarrassment. Westby turned on him a delighted grin, and said,— “Can I be of any assistance, Mr. Upton?” “No, thank you,” said Irving, and having slipped in one cartridge, he began filling the other chambers of the revolver. “It takes only one shot to start,” observed Westby. “Yes,” said Irving. “If I fire a second, it will be to call you back because of a false start.—Now then,—all ready once more. On your marks!” They crouched. “Set!” He fired. Somehow in the start Westby’s foot slipped, and in trying to get clear he lunged against Flack. Irving saw it and instantly fired a second shot, and shouted, “Come back, come back!” The runners heeded the signal and the shout, but as they tiptoed up the track, they looked irritated. “Westby, you fouled Flack.” Irving spoke with some asperity. “I shall have to set you back a yard.” “It was an accident,” Westby replied warmly. “My foot slipped. I couldn’t help myself.” “But it was a foul,” declared Irving, “and I shall have to set you back a yard.” “It was an accident, I tell you,” repeated Westby. “If it was an accident, you oughtn’t to set him back,” said Drake, his fellow Corinthian. “It’s in the starter’s discretion,” spoke up Mason, the Pythian. “The penalty’s a yard,” affirmed Irving. Westby shut his lips tight and looked angrily contemptuous. Irving measured the distance. “There,” he said, “you will start there.” Westby took the place behind the others without a word. “Ready now! On your marks!” The pistol cracked, and this time they all got away safely, and Irving raced after them over the grass.