The applause that greeted the winners was sounding but dimly and like some far-away shout in Will Phelps' ears when he staggered into the outstretched arms of Hawley, who was waiting to receive his classmate. Mortification, chagrin, disappointment were all mingled in his feelings, and it was all intensified by the fact that both Foster and Peter John had won their "numerals" and were now marked men in the class. Not that he begrudged either the honors he had won, but his own reputation as a sprinter had preceded his coming to Winthrop, and Will knew that great things had been expected of him. "It was a great race, Phelps," said Hawley, "and you've added another point to our score." Will could understand the attempt at consolation which his huge classmate was making, but it only served to increase the bitterness of his own defeat. He smiled, but made no response. He could see Peter John strutting about and receiving the half-bantering congratulations of the students, and his heart became still heavier. "Never mind, Phelps, you didn't have any chance to train," said Hawley. "Mott and Ogden have been down on the track every evening for the past three weeks." "They have?" demanded Will, a ray of light appearing for the moment. "Sure. And besides all that they got the date of the 'meet' changed too." "They beat me," said Will simply. "Everybody expected them to. They all know you're a good runner, Phelps, but they say a freshman never wins. Such a thing hasn't been known for years. You see, a freshman is all new to it here, and I don't care how good he is, he can't do himself justice. You ought to hear what Wagner, the captain of the college track team, had to say about you." "What did he say?" inquired Will eagerly. "He said you had it in you to make one of the best runners in college, and he's going to keep an eye on you for the team too." "Did he say that?" "That's what he did." "The two-twenty hasn't been run yet. I believe I'll go in for that." "That's the way to talk." "Let me see when it comes," said Will, turning to his program as he spoke. "Fifteen minutes yet," said Hawley. "Come into the dressing room, Phelps, and I'll give you a good rubbing down." Will at once accompanied his friend to the dressing room, and when the call for the two hundred and twenty yards' dash was made, he took his place on the line with the other competitors. There were only four, the same four that had run in the final heat of the hundred yards, the defeated contestants all having dropped out save one.