“Oh, so far.”  Irving looked up the track; the foremost runners were rounding the curve at the end of their first lap.  He had a moment’s longing to be one of them, stretching his legs like them, trying out his strength and speed on the smooth cinder track against others as eager as himself.  He had never done anything of that kind; hardly until now had he ever felt the desire.  Why it should come upon him now so poignantly he did not know; but on this warm October afternoon, when the air and the sunshine were as soft as in early September, he wished that he might be a boy again and do the things which as a boy he had never done.  To be still young and looking on at the sports and the strife of youth, sports and strife in which he had never borne a part—­there was something humiliating and ignoble in the thought.  If he could only be for the moment the little Fourth Former there, Price—­now flying on in the lead yet casting many fearful backward glances!—­Poor child, even Irving’s inexperienced eyes told him that he could never keep that pace.

“Go it, kid!” cried three or four older boys good-naturedly, as Price panted by; and he threw back his head and came down more springily upon his toes, trying in response to the cheer to display his best form.

After him came Bolton and Edwards, side by side; and Collingwood, who started at scratch, had moved up a little on Morse and Heath.  Heath was considered the strongest runner in the event for the Corinthians, and they urged him on with cries of “Heath!  Heath!” as he made the turn.  “You’ve got ’em, Lou!” shouted a group of Pythians the next moment as Collingwood passed.  It was early in the race for any great demonstration of excitement.

It was Price whom Irving watched with most sympathy.  When he got round on the farther side of the field, his pace had slackened perceptibly; Bolton and Edwards passed him and kept on widening the distance; Morse and Heath passed him at the next turn; and when he came down to the turn in front of the crowd, running heavily, Collingwood overhauled and passed him.  It was rather an unfeeling thing for Collingwood to do, right there in front of the crowd, but he was driven to it by force of circumstances; the four other runners were holding on in a way he did not like.  The cries of encouragement to him and to Heath were more urgent this time; Bolton and Edwards and Morse had their supporters too.

Westby ran along the field beside Price, and Irving felt a moment’s indignation; was Westby taunting the plucky and exhausted small boy?  And then Irving saw that he was not, and at the same instant Barclay turned to him and said,—­

“Price is Westby’s young cousin.”

Irving stood near enough to hear Westby say, “Good work, Tom; you set the pace just right; it’ll kill Collingwood.  Now drop out.”

Price shook his head and kept on; Westby trotted beside him, saying anxiously, “There’s no use in your wearing yourself all out.”  But Price continued at his determined, pounding trot.