"On your marks!" called the starter, and the silence that rested over
the field became intense.
"Get set!" A sigh seemed to rise from the assembly and all were
standing.
"Go!" The crack of the pistol was heard and instantly the runners were
speeding down the track.
The day was warm and Will Phelps could feel that his face was as wet as
if he had plunged in the river. Never in all his young life had he
exerted himself as then. The tread of the running feet on the track
seemed almost like that of one man. On and on they sped, no one looking
to the right or left. Whether he was winning or not, Will was unable to
determine. He knew that all five were "bunched," for he could feel and
hear the others near him. The deafening shouts and the shrill calls and
cries sounded faint and dim in his ears. He could see the officials
standing near the end of the course--an end that seemed far away for all
that the runners were so swiftly approaching.
Nearer and nearer the runners drew and the shouts increased in violence.
Every one in the assembly was standing erect and leaning forward,
breathless with interest. Fifteen, ten, then only five yards remained.
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