awake, just to test his steam and press himself a bit; and sometimes, on moonlight nights, when he could see the track plain as day, he'd go over after dark and whirl off his mile at top speed, stripped to the buffracing through the moonlight with the cool night smell coming up from the grass and the cool wind blowing on him all over. Those were the times when he even forgot the Other Man. It seemed as though he was tireless, eating up the distance like a ghost with a feeling all the time of I've-donethis-before-in-the-dawn-of-things-a-million-years-ago. The next day, when he was back in the hardware store, he would smile inside at ordinary folks plodding about in their foolish store-clothes. The point is, you see, he began to run for the fun of running. It was the only thing he'd had for company since the Other Man went away. By the time summer was over he was brown as an Indian and hard as nails and he could run like a broncho.

In August, in Vandalia, came the Clearwater County fair. It was the biggest fair in the State-more people, bigger pumpkins, fatter hogs, taller corn, more balloons and bands and red lemonade and noise. The fair grounds began to fill up with red thrashing-machines and candy booths and side-show tents-not the place for a young man who preferred to be alone. On the afternoon of Wednesday, the third day of the fair, the Vandalia Miler stopped at the corner drug-store for a drink of soda-water, on his way home. He was just swallowing a glass of Arctic Mist and recalling that a preparation known as Lemo Kolo had tasted just like it a year ago, when out through the window, over the colored-water jars, he saw the Other Man, home again after his triumphs in the vast and glittering East, togged out in a set of very tricky flannels and blowing along State Street, bowing right and left, and beaming like a freshplucked rose for joy at getting home. You might just as well have flashed a searchlight in his eyes at ten paces. He was all in. The two years that had passed rolled up like a patent window-shade when the spring slips, and he was back at the railroad station, just home from Pardeeville, watching the Other Man walk away through the melancholy dawn. He saw him pushing open the screen, and he braced himself for an instant to face it out, cold and rather

haughtily. Then he flung a dime on the counter and, red as fire hurried out the side door.

That night the Blade published a long program for Thursday, the big day at the fair. There was to be a special excursion from Sugar River, a free-for-all trot and a two-fifteen pace, the McHenry Zouaves, the Diving Horse, a fat ladies' potato race, Pavella the King of Tight Wire, and-"an open mile foot-race for the championship of the world." That was the way the Blade put it. They could always be trusted in such cases to do the right thing. Of course it was the Other Man's crowd who had conceived the idea of the race. He had brought some of his friends home with him from the East to show them what the West was like, and they had thought it would be good sport to make him trot out and perform for the girls and the merry villagers. "For the championship of the world," said the Blade, "that is no mere jest is evidenced by the fact that first among the list of entries appears the name of our famous young townsman, the present intercollegiate champion. He informed a representative of the Blade this afternoon that he had kept up his training for just such a contingency as this, and that he never was in finer fettle. The scribe found him at his home, 'The Elms,' on the beautiful estate north of the city, where he is entertaining a number of wealthy young society men from Eastern bon-ton circles, and found him as modest as he was when he left his native town two years ago. He said that nothing would please him more than to run at the fair-grounds, track. 'For it was there,' said he, 'that I won my first race, you know!'"

"Oh, hell!" said the Vandalia Miler. And then he called up the superintendent's office at the fair grounds and told them to enter him for the mile.

There was, in the first place, a piping hot August afternoon, the kind that they have out in the corn belt, when not a drop of rain has fallen for a couple of months and the leaves are drying up on the trees and the grass is yellow and crackly under foot, and the dust follows after the farmer's wagons like smoke. Then, inside a high board fence, was the fair ground, with big wooden halls here and there, oak-trees with

locusts singing away in the branches, and packed full of people and prize cattle and pumpkins and lunch-boxes and chewing candy and noise. There were farmers in their store-clothes just in from thrashing and farmers' girls in white dresses with pink and baby-blue ribbons, and in between children with sticky popcorn and red balloons and squawkers. There was a "natural amphitheatre" with benches running along the side hill, where the hushed crowd gaped at the spellbinder waving his arms beside the ice-water pitcher. There were prize-pig pens and sheep pens, the art hall with its pictures of peaches tumbling out of baskets and watermelons just opened with the knife lying beside them, and the tents where Diavolo ate grass and blew fire out of his mouth and the beautiful young lady stood out on a platform by the ticket-box, in faded pink tights, with a big wet snake wound around her throat and her spangles blinking in the sunshine. There were sample windmills and cane-ringing games, and wherever there was room a man shaking popcorn or pulling candy over a hook, or a damp little shed smelling of vanilla, where people were eating ice cream and drinking red lemonade. You get all that and lots more going at once, with the barkers yelling and the sledge-hammers thumping on the strength-testing machines and the merry-go-round organs squealing away, with the sun blazing at ninety-four in the shade and everywhere the smell of hot people and clothes and stale perfume, of lemonade and popcorn and peanuts and dust and trampled grass-you take all that, draw a third-of-a-mile circle through the thick of it, push the crowd back a bit, and you have the Vandalia track that day as the engine bell in the judges' stand tolled out the warning signal and the old marshal on his white circus horse rode down the track sidewise, bellowing out the "mile foot race fer the champeenship of the world!"

As he caught the sharp command of the bell-the same bell that for years and years had called up the trotting horses from the stables-the Vandalia Miler jumped out of his blanket in the Tight-Wire Man's tent and pushed through the crowd to the mark. The farmer girls giggled as they saw his bare legs and a train of small boys followed him, gaping solemnly in the manner of those determined to see just how it was

done. The Vandalia Miler was very pale. As he took his place on the starting line he was the only one there ready to run. He stared straight ahead at the people edging up closer and closer to the little lane that was left for them to run through, licked his dry lips and rubbed nervously his bare left arm. There they were, the farmers and the townspeople, the men and the girls that he and the Other Man had grown up with and gone to school with. And he felt that if he could beat him-so slim and smiling and sure-beat him in Vandalia, there and then, with Vandalia and the county and the old crowd looking on The enginebell clanged again peremptorily.

"Coming! Coming!" Somebody was shouting uproariously over the heads of the crowd. A big tan buckboard drove in between the surreys and lumber-wagons, and out hopped the Other Man, all wrapped up in a great plaid ulster, his bare ankles showing underneath it. He threw off his coat and stood there laughing and shaking hands with his friends-in his 'varsity running clothes, the crimson ribbon across his chest. The Vandalia Miler saw him and gripped his fingers tight. It seemed to him that the crowd suddenly became still; the uproar of the squawkers and carousel-organ sounded vague and far away. At the same moment there was a stir in the crowd just under the stand, and a big, tow-headed chap began to pull off his overalls and shirt. "Hey, there!" he called up to the starters; "I want to get in this!" The crowd began to laugh good-naturedly, but the Vandalia Miler didn't laugh at all. He was trying to remember where he had seen this farmer's face. On the sleeveless jersey which the tow-headed man wore underneath his flannel shirt was a spot cleaner than the rest. It was where an initial had been torn away. He turned to find the Other Man in front of him, smiling and holding out his hand. He took it, scarcely knowing what he did.

"So we're going to have it out, right here and now," laughed the Other Man, looking him straight in the eyes.

"Yes," said the Vandalia Miler. His mouth was all cotton, so it came in a quick sort of whisper. "Yes," he repeated.

"I hope," began the Other Man, and then he paused and grinned a little and blushed. "It's been quite a while-I hope

All at once someone cried-" Now,

ready!" The crowd that had apparently been pushing and shoving aimlessly about the judges' stand closed into a compact mass and out came a yell—one of those oldfashioned, wild-Indian, give-'em-the-axe, and all that sort of thing yells, with Sugar River at the end. "Sugar River-Sugar River Sugar River!" three times, like that. It was like marching into the middle of an Irish picnic with a brass band playing "Boyne Water." A hoot and a howl came back from all along the track and the crowd —all Vandalia, it seemed―began to stampede in toward the judges' stand. The Vandalia Miler grabbed a couple of handfuls of long grass from the turf at the side of the track and wadded them up in his hands for "corks." His face wasn't as pale now and a new look jumped into his eyes. He turned to the Other Man, yelling above the uproar of the crowd:

"You want to look out for him: He's a ringer, and he's running for Sugar River!" And in the thick of the noise and the pushing and the dust, the starter swung his hat downward and with the single cry of "Go!" sent the three runners away.

The Other Man cut across from the outside like a flash and took the pole. The Vandalia Miler closed in behind, tight on his heels, eyes hooked to his back, just below the shoulders. The tow-headed man trailed the two, big-boned and heavy, but striding long and strong as a horse. Into the crowd they went-a sort of curving chute, walled in by faces and clothes smelling of popcorn and dust, and a baking sun beating down from overhead-like three machines, stride and stride alike, the Other Man leading the way like a race-horse, strong and confident, as if he were only playing with the game. Out into the open and the cooler air of the back-stretch they swung, past the red thrashers and pig pens, round the lower turn, and toward the judges' stand again. They were going like a threehorse tandem, the Vandalia Miler so close up that the dirt from the Other Man's spikes splashed his shins. He could see indistinctly the crowd still jostling and shouting under the wire, see the lobsterred face and white mustache of old Skerritt, the starter, leaning out on the rail of the judges' stand toward them and bellowing through his hands something about beating out Sugar River. He felt the mass open up

and close in after them, the suffocating walled-in chute growing hotter and heavier, the pull of the second quarter beginning to drag hard on his legs and wind, and at the time he saw plainly that the Other Man was, if anything, increasing the pace-pushing ahead like a doped race-horse, at a halfmile gait, forgetting that there was anybody behind him. The pace held-screwed up tight-stride and stride alike, round the upper turn and into the open again. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a big mullin leaf-one of his old mile-stones-slip past their feet, the beginning of the third quarter. But the shade of a let-down in the pace which he expected there and which prepares for the last quarter never came. As they struck the cooler air-it was like getting out of a cornfield into the road-the noise about the judges' stand-Sugar River and Vandalia all mixed together-came reaching across the field bigger than ever, and every time it puffed out louder the Other Man's back jumped ahead a bit. The Vandalia Miler stuck close-not pressing, not letting himself lose an inch. He was holding every ounce of steam, running every stride with his head. Round the lower turn they pounded, every dozen strides or so letting slip another link, and then, just as they were rounding into the straightaway there suddenly puffed up from the judges' stand a great roar of "Sugar River!" At the same instant he heard a hoarse breath just behind his neck, an arm bumped his elbow, and the tow-headed man pushed by on the outside and went up after the leader. The crowd down the track was going wild. Old Skerritt was banging the engine-bell for the last lap like a fireman going to a fire. The Vandalia Miler didn't shift his eyes a hair's breadth from the Other Man's back. He was surprised at himself to see how cool he was; how he was calculating whether the Other Man was tireless or had merely lost his head, whether the Sugar River man could make good with his bluff or whether, as they neared the crowd, he was just playing to the gallery. In the next two-twenty he would know. There was more than a quarter yet to go, and he tried to feel it all as a unit and know just how much he had left. Past the stand and into the crowd again-the Sugar River man's chin slewed round a bit. He was lifting into the sprint! And a quarter yet

to go! He saw the Other Man's back jump forward as he met the challenge, saw them fighting, shoulder to shoulder, knew the moment had come, that here and now the race was to be lost or won, and he squeezed his corks, shut his eyes, and bore on hard. For a dozen strides he fought, like a man under water trying to get to the surface, when suddenly, from the edge of the track ahead came a quick, triumphant cheer. He opened his eyes. The Sugar River man was ahead! He had squeezed past and was on the pole, drawing away from the Other Man. But it was not the SugarRiver yell that was echoing across the track. It was a new and different crynervous, compact, fierce, relentless. It forced itself through the general hullabaloo and dominated it, and suddenly it came clear to the Vandalia Miler's ears-the old drum-beat cheer—his cheer-the one he and the Other Man had taught the school before the team went to Pardeeville. And his name was at the end. Down came a pair of arms a rod or two in front of him and out it smashed again-that wonderful yell with the sudden shift of the beat in the fifth line, like getting under a big weight, all together, and shoving after you've been pounding it. He fought on in a dizzy sort of trance, not knowing what was happening, but feeling suddenly light and confident and strong. He felt himself gaining -felt that somehow the backs of the other two men were drawing irresistibly nearer. Someone ran along beside him, waving a hat. "You've got him! You've got him! Keep it up! Keep it up!" the man cried. "Vandalia! Vandalia! Vandalia!" All at once it came to him that he had got him -got the Other Man-got the ringer—that Vandalia was going to beat Sugar River and they were calling on him to come. The cheer shot out again—a little farther ahead -as fast as the beat stopped it was caught up and carried on. Someone-it was the boys he'd trained who had done it-had strung relays all round the track. It became a regular bombardment. The crowd listened-wavered-and broke loose. They came swarming down from the seats on the side hill and over the rail. They followed along behind in a drove, yelling like Indians. It looked like a picture of the flight from Pompeii with everybody laughing-kids and men and girls stumbling along in the

grass at the side of the track and scuffling up the dust behind. He could hear them laughing and screaming: "Keep it up! Keep it up!" and "Beat him! Beat him! Vandalia! Vandalia!" and steadily all the time from behind and in front came that drum-beat cheer, ripping and pounding out above the rest. The relays crossed each other and overlapped, taking it up and beating it in-swinging it, jamming it at 'em. It seemed as though that whole fair ground had jumped together in a twinkling and was calling on him to come. It all hit him in a flash-shivered up his backbone. He had stayed behind, but he was somebody, after all, and he stood for somebody and they stood for him and expected things of him. He forgot the Other Man, forgot himself. He was Vandalia now, and Vandalia must smash Sugar River. It was more than getting even, more than winning; it was fighting for his friends, for his town, for his country. His feet seemed lifted from the ground.

Maybe Vandalia was a dull place to live in, but it was everlastingly healthy. All his running and going-to-bed-with-the-chickens came back to help him now. Rounding into the stretch, he took the bit in his teeth and turned everything loose. With every stride he seemed to pull the Sugar River man's back nearer, hand over hand. His elbow bumped an arm and he heard the Other Man gasping out, "Beat him! Beat him!" as he passed by. Nothing could have stopped him then. There were fifty yards left. He shut his eyes again; his elbow bumped an arm, then the engine-bell was clanging overhead, and the tape hit his chest. The crowd closed in, there was a great uproar all round him, and he turned just in time to see the Sugar River man go down and out about six feet short of the line, and to catch the Other Man in his arms as he dove forward and fainted clean away.

He picked him up like a child, and, spent as he was, carried him into the the TightWire Man's tent. Outside the crowd cheered and howled, and pushed up against the canvas walls, and from the distance came the boom of the band, marching toward them across the field. He swabbed on witch-hazel desperately-panting, dizzy with excitement and happiness, and a queer happy-weepy remorse. The Other Man opened his eyes and blinked.

"Bill"-he grinned the best he could and held out his hand-"I guess we've been fools long enough." Then he got tired again. "It was a great race," he said, without opening his eyes. The Vandalia Miler swabbed on the witch-hazel the harder. "Yes!" he panted; "Yes!" He meant that he thought it had been long enough. Somehow he couldn't remember any words. And then the crowd pushed in. The Other Man raised himself on his elbow.

"Go out to them, Bill," he said; "I'm all right. You don't want to forget-you're champeen of the world!"

They grabbed him up, protesting, lifted him on their shoulders and carried him out of the tent. He felt the cooler air and he saw the faces turned toward him and heard the cheers and cries, and then they marched out to the people—his own people at last― with the band booming away at the head. That, in a way, is about what they've

been doing to him ever since, out there in Vandalia. At least that is what Starbuck said as he told us the story-we who had run together and played together and were back from East and West to see another class day, to tell the old stories, run the old races over again, swing home again with the pack through the frosty autumn, toward the lights of the Square. Starbuck, you see, was the Other Man.

"They've just nominated him for governor out in our State," said he, "and they're telling the story of that race all the way from South River Junction to the North State line. I'm one of Bill's spell-binders; that's why I tell it so well. He's our Favorite Son now, and he's only begun." Starbuck took a couple of brisk pulls at his cigar and blew a big cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Begins to look" said he cheerfully, "as though I was the man who was left behind.”