Stevenson and Dickie promptly rose—Stevenson anxious in manner, fussy; Dickie serious, calm. Together they walked across the field, MacArthur and Ludwig in attendance. Every event had been finished except the pole-vault, always a lengthy affair. The audience was in a fine state of expectancy. Just before reaching the track, Ludwig drew the boys’ heads together. “Now, Stevenson, this meet depends on you. We win it if you capture the five points for first place in the quarter. We lose it if you don’t. Dickie here is to be sacrificed for you. Keep your eye on Dickie; he’ll swing out and tell you when. “And you, Dickie,” Ludwig went on, “make a way for Stevenson and balk Keswick. See that you have the pole on the last turn. Now go along. O Dickie, a moment!” Ludwig dropped his arm round the boy’s neck. “This is in confidence, Dickie. MacArthur and I are afraid that Stevenson isn’t any too fond of his job to-day—that he doesn’t quite fancy a tilt with Sullivan. What do you think?” “Stevenson afraid? Oh, no, Mr. Ludwig! Stevie’s nervous—that’s natural. Why, I’m nervous, for all you crack up my coolness. I’m nervous as I can be, but I try not to show it, and Stevie lets his out. Stevie will win. Look at him up on his toes now! Style! He’s won three-quarters of the crowd already, just the gait of him. Don’t worry, Mr. Ludwig, Webster’ll win this quarter-mile.” “Well, all right, Dickie. I hope you’re right. Hope he’s only nervous. Look out for him, anyway. But don’t try to do it too fast—don’t kill yourself. If you can, you might just as well finish; you don’t know, somebody might drop and you pick up a point. Not much of a chance for you, but—” “But Sullivan and Stevie and the rest of them _might_ drop—used up! Ha, that’s good! Imagine me a quarter-mile champion! It’s too strange to think of.” “Strange things, Dickie. There, that’s for you.” In the line of starters Dickie was second from the pole. Big Keswick was inside him, Stevenson outside, and Sullivan second outside Stevenson. Dickie at once made himself acquainted with Keswick’s tactics. One or two false starts convinced him that Keswick’s right elbow was intended for a prominent part in the contest. Dickie knew that Keswick expected to have it all his own way when it came to close quarters. But there was a way. Dickie had no notion of letting Keswick’s cruel elbow rob him of the pole. There was always a way to deal with such tactics. “Starters ready?” “Ready!” “Timers ready?” “Ready—ready, all ready!” “Get on your marks. Set—stea-a-d-d-y. Come up. Man at the pole, be careful. Now—on your marks. Get set—”