ttention to this, but Flemming said:

"I'll have to go you, Rattleton. Put up the tenner."

The money was quickly posted, and then the rivals stood side by side,
with their coats and vests removed, ready for the word.

Merriwell seemed quiet and indifferent, as if it were an event of no
particular moment; while on Yates' face there was a look that plainly
showed he was determined to settle all dispute by winning the dash to
the station.

One of the committee had been chosen to give the word, and he stepped
out, sharply calling:

"Ready!"

The lads leaned forward over the scratch in the dirt, which had been
drawn by somebody's heel.

"Go!"

Away shot the rivals like leaping fawns. They seemed like two foxes, and
the crowd of lads who broke away in pursuit resembled a pack of hounds.

It was a hot dash, and, for some time, the boys were running side by
side, neither seeming to have an advantage.

"Wait a bit," panted Emery, at Diamond's side; "you'll soon see Yates
spurt and leave Merriwell."

"What do you think Merriwell will be doing while Yates is spurting?"
asked Jack, sarcastically.

"He'll seem to be standing still."

"Will he? Wait and see!"

The rivals were drawing near the station, and still it seemed that they
were keeping side by side.

"Now they are spurting!"

Yes, they were spurting for the finish, but, to the amazement of Yates'
friends, a single bound had seemed to carry Frank Merriwell two yards in
advance of the other runner, and this advantage Merriwell maintained.

In another moment the station would be reached, and the race must end.
Seeing this, Andy Emery was bitterly grinding out an exclamation of rage
and disgust.

Suddenly Yates seemed to trip and fall heavily. He tried to spring up,
but seemed to be hurt, and he was struggling to rise when Flemming
reached the spot and lifted him to his feet.

"Are you hurt?" asked several, as they gathered around Duncan.

"Not much," he answered, rather thickly; "but I lost the dash by that
fall."

"Rats!" muttered Harry Rattleton. "He had lost it before he fell."

"I was ready to make the final spurt, which would have carried me ahead
of Merriwell at the finish," declared Yates.

"Oh, it is a case of beastly luck!" growled Andy Emery. "It is the way
everything turns in Merriwell's favor. He never wins except it is by
cold luck."

"Oh, come off!" chirped Danny Griswold. "You're sore, that's all ails
you!"

"Shut up, or I'll wr