ON YOUR MARK!
BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR.
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[Illustration: “Fooling?” Burley echoed. “Why, no, I ain’t fooling.”]
ON YOUR MARK!
A Story of College Life and Athletics
BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR
AUTHOR OF BEHIND THE LINE, WEATHERBY’S INNING, ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY C. M. RELYEA_
[Illustration]
New York
D. Appleton and Company
1908
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
_Published September, 1904_
TO
BERT AND LILA
IN MEMORY OF
“THE BIG HOUSE”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--THE WINNER OF THE MILE 1
II.--A VISITING CARD 12
III.--ON THE CINDERS 22
IV.--HAL HAS AN IDEA 33
V.--“MR. PETER BURLEY, BLACKWATER, COL.” 45
VI.--“RIGHT GUARD BACK!” 57
VII.--“THE RANCH” 65
VIII.--PETE’S CLUB TABLE 73
IX.--THE DUCK HUNT 86
X.--DINNER FOR TWO 96
XI.--THE CAPSIZED BOAT 106
XII.--TOMMY CORRECTS A REPORT 120
XIII.--PETE WRITES HOME 130
XIV.--HOCKEY--WITH VARIATIONS 139
XV.--IN THE “CORRAL” 147
XVI.--THE INDOOR MEETING 157
XVII.--ALLAN LEAVES THE CLUB TABLE 172
XVIII.--AN ALARM OF FIRE 181
XIX.--PETE PUTS THE SHOT 193
XX.--TRACK AND FIELD 203
XXI.--SUNSHINE AND SHADOW 210
XXII.--A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH 218
XXIII.--THE FRESHMAN GAME 227
XXIV.--“ON YOUR MARK!” 239
XXV.--THE LAST EVENT 254
XXVI.--“VALE” 263
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
“Fooling?” Burley echoed. “Why, no, I ain’t fooling.”
_Frontispiece_
A white-clad form sped across the finish. 11
“Sorry you don’t approve of them.” 94
Pete tipped him over the barrier. 143
ON YOUR MARK
CHAPTER I
THE WINNER OF THE MILE
“All out for the mile!”
Myer, clerk of the course, stuck his head inside the dressing-tent and
bawled the command in a voice already made hoarse by his afternoon’s
duties. In response a dozen or so fellows gathered their blankets
or dressing-gowns about them and tumbled out into the dusk of a
mid-October evening. Because of the fact that on Wednesday and Saturday
afternoons the athletic field was required for the football contests
it was necessary to hold the Fall Handicap Meeting on one of the other
days of the week. This year it was on Friday, October 17th, and because
the Erskine College faculty does not permit athletic contests of any
sort to begin before four o’clock on any day save Saturday, the mile
run, the last event on the program, was not reached until almost six
o’clock; and in the middle of October in the latitude of Centerport it
is almost dark at that time.
It was cold, too. A steady north wind blew down the home-stretch and
made the waiting contestants dance nimbly about on their spiked shoes
and rub their bare legs. That wind had helped the sprinters, hurdlers,
and jumpers very considerably, since it had blown against their backs
on the straightaway and the runway, enabling them to equal the Erskine
record in two cases and break it in a third. It was Stearns, ’04, the
track-team captain and crack sprinter who, starting from scratch, had
performed the latter feat. Until to-day the Erskine record for the
220-yards dash had been twenty-two seconds flat; this afternoon, with
the wind behind him all the way, Stearns had clipped a fifth of a
second from the former time, to the delight of the shivering audience,
who had cheered the announcement of the result loudly, glad to be able
to warm themselves with enthusiasm on any pretext.
But if the north wind had been kind to the sprinters, the middle- and
long-distance men had derived no benefit from it; for while it aided
them on the home-stretch, it held them back on the opposite side of the
field. The spectators had already begun to stream away toward college
when Myer at length succeeded in getting the last of the milers placed
upon their marks. The two-mile event had been tame, with Conroy, ’04,
jogging over the line a good twenty yards ahead of the second man,
and there was no reason to expect anything more exciting in the mile.
Rindgely and Hooker were both on scratch and surely capable of beating
out any of the ambitious freshmen, who, with a leavening of other
class men, were sprinkled around the turn as far as the 200 yards.
To be sure, Rindgely and Hooker might fight it out, but it was more
probable that they had already tossed a coin between themselves to see
who was to have first prize and who second. So the audience, by this
time pretty well chilled, went off in search of more comfortable places
than Erskine Field; or at least most of them did; a handful joined the
groups of officials along the track, and jumped and stamped about in an
attempt to get the blood back into toes and fingers.
Clarke Mason was one of those electing to stay. Possibly the fact
that he had had the forethought to stop in his room on his way to the
field and don a comfortable white sweater may have had something to do
with his decision. At least it is safe to say that the mere fact of
his being managing editor of the Erskine Purple was not accountable,
for the Purple had a small but assiduous corps of reporters in its
employment, one of whom, looking very blue about the nose, Clarke spoke
to on his way across to where Stearns, having got back into his street
clothes, was talking to Kernahan, the trainer.
“Well, who’s going to win this, Billy?” asked Clarke. (The track
trainer was “Billy” to only a select few, and many a student, seeking
to ingratiate himself with the little Irishman, had had his head almost
snapped off for too familiar use of that first name.) Kernahan looked
over the contestants and nodded to the men on scratch.
“One of them,” he answered.
“Then you have no infant prodigies for this event in the freshman
candidates?”
“I don’t know of any. Two or three of them may turn out fast, but I
guess they can’t hurry Hooker or Rindgely much.”
“Who’s the chap you’ve got by himself over there on the turn?” asked
Stearns.
“That’s--I don’t mind his name; he’s a freshman from Hillton; he wanted
more handicap, but I couldn’t give it to him, not with those legs of
his. He’s built for a runner, anyhow.”
“He surely is,” answered Stearns, “as far as legs are concerned.
But legs aren’t everything. Hello! you haven’t given that little
black-haired sophomore much of a show; thirty yards won’t help him much
in the mile.”
“Track, there!” cried a voice.
The three moved back on to the turf, Kernahan, who was timer, pulling
out his watch. The dozen or so milers who had been summoned from the
tent had had their ranks increased by several others. Hooker and
Rindgely had the scratch to themselves, but the thirty yards held three
men scarcely less speedy, and from that point onward around the turn
as far as the middle of the back-stretch the others were scattered
in little groups of twos and threes. Only the freshman with the long
legs was alone. He had been given a handicap of 120 yards, and was
jogging back and forth across the track with the bottom of his drab
dressing-gown flapping around his slender ankles. Ahead of him in the
gathering twilight six other runners, in two groups, were fidgeting
about in the cold. Across the field floated the command to get ready.
He tossed his wrap aside, revealing a lithe figure of little above
medium height with long legs in which the muscles played prettily as he
leaned forward with outstretched arm. At the report of the pistol he
sprang away with long easy strides that seemed to eat up the distance.
At the beginning of the home-stretch he had caught up the nearest bunch
of runners, and at the mark he was speeding close behind the foremost
men and taking the pace from the leader. It had cost him something to
gain the position, and to the watchers about the finish it seemed that
he was already spent.
“Your long-legged freshman’s done for, I guess,” said Clarke.
“Yes, he’s too ambitious. Has a pretty stride, though, hasn’t he,
Billy?” Walter Stearns followed the freshman runner with his gaze while
he began the turn. Kernahan too was watching him, and with something
like interest. But all he said was:
“Stride’s pretty good; feet drag a good deal, though.”
“Who’s that closing up?” asked Stearns. “Oh, it’s the sophomore chap
with the black hair. He’s an idiot, that’s what he is. Look! he’s
trying to pass Long-legs. There he goes! Long-legs has sense, anyhow.
Sophomore’s taken the lead, and look at the pace he’s making! Long-legs
is dropping back; none but a fool would try to keep up to that.”
They were at the turn now, and the gathering darkness made it difficult
to determine who was who. So the watchers gave their attention to
the scratch-men and one or two stragglers who were bunched together
half-way down the back-stretch. Rindgely and Hooker were close
together, the latter putting his toes down squarely into the former’s
prints. Both were running easily and with the consciousness of plenty
of power in reserve. When the turn was begun they had gained slightly
on the others near them and were about 120 yards behind the first
bunch. The black-haired sophomore was still setting the pace when he
crossed the mark again. Behind him at short intervals sped four others,
and last in the group came the freshman with the long legs. The
half-hundred spectators that remained were clustered close to the track
near the finish and, in spite of chattering teeth, were displaying some
enthusiasm. A junior named Harris who was running third was encouraged
lustily, but most of the applause was reserved for the two cracks,
Rindgely and Hooker; they were well known and well liked; besides, they
were pretty certain to win, and it is always satisfactory to back the
victor.
“What’s this, the third lap?” Clarke asked, thumping his bare hands
together. “Well, I’m going back; better come along, Walt. You’ll freeze
here. If we’re going to have this sort of weather in October, I’d like
to know what’s going to happen to us in December.”
“Well, I guess I’ll go along,” Stearns said. “It surely is cold, and we
know how this is going to end. There go Rindgely and Hooker now; watch
’em overhaul the bunch. If you see Ames, Billy, tell him I said he was
to look me up to-night, will you?”
“All right,” answered the trainer. “But you’d better see this out;
there’s something in the way of a finish coming pretty quick.”
“Why, what’s up?” asked the track-team captain, turning quickly to
observe the runners.
“Well, I don’t know for sure,” answered Kernahan, cautiously, “but the
scratch-men aren’t going to get their mugs without a fight for them,
I’m thinking.”
“Who’s in the running?” Stearns asked, eagerly. Once more the first men
were coming down the home-stretch. But now the order was changed. The
black-haired sophomore was not in sight, but in his place sped Hooker,
an easy, confident smile on his face. On his heels was Rindgely. Then
came the junior, Harris, and beside him, fighting for the pole, was a
little plump senior. Behind this pair and about five yards distant was
the long-legged freshman. His head was held well, but his breathing was
loud and tortured. Stearns looked each man over searchingly. Then he
turned to the trainer.
“Last lap! Last lap!” was the cry.
“Say, Billy, you don’t mean Harris?” shouted Stearns when he could make
himself heard.
Kernahan shook his head.
“Then who?”
“Keep your eyes on Ware,” said the trainer.
“Ware? Who the dickens is Ware?” asked Stearns. But the trainer was
scattering the spectators from beside the finish, and so paid no heed.
The stragglers were passing now and the crowd was speeding them along
with announcements that the last lap had begun and with mildly ironical
injunctions to “move up head” or “cut across the field.” Then all eyes
were turned to the back-stretch, where the five leaders, survivors of
a field of some fifteen, were racing along, dim whitish forms in the
evening twilight. Hooker was setting a hot pace now, and the gaps were
lengthening. But as the last turn was reached the figures changed their
positions; some one dropped back; some one else moved suddenly to the
front. But it was all a blur and the identity of the runners could be
only surmised.
“That’s Rindgely taking the lead, I guess,” said Stearns. “That means
that Hooker’s to sprint the last fifty yards or so and get first. But
I’d like to know who Ware is. Do you know?”
Clarke shook his head.
“Search me,” he answered. “Maybe it’s the long-legged chap. He’s still
in the bunch, I think.”
“Yes, but he was just about done up when the last lap was finished. Did
you notice? He was gasping. Where’s Billy?”
“Over there at the mark. He’s holding a watch; if you speak to him now
he’ll jump down your throat. Here they come. Let’s move over here where
we can see.”
“Well, whoever’s in the lead is making a mighty painful pace for the
finish of the mile,” exclaimed the captain. “Seems to me he’s ’way
ahead, too!”
“It isn’t Rindgely,” said Clarke, decisively. “It must be----”
“Come on, Freshman!” cried a mighty voice at Clarke’s elbow, and a
big broad-shouldered youth crashed by, sending the editor of the
Purple reeling on to the cinders, from where he was pulled back by
Stearns. Clarke glared around in search of the cause of his ignominious
performance, and saw him standing, a whole head above the crowd, a few
paces away at the edge of the track. He seemed to be quite unconscious
of Clarke’s anger. Leaning out over the cinders, he was waving a big
hand and bellowing in a voice that drowned all other cries:
“Come on, Freshman! Dig your spurs in! _Whoo-ee!_”
Clarke’s anger gave way to excitement. Down the home-stretch came the
runners, sprinting for the mark. Stearns was shouting unintelligible
things at his side and apparently trying to climb his back in order to
see the finish. The throng was yelling for Hooker, for Rindgely, for
Harris.
And then, suddenly, comparative silence fell. Twenty yards away the
runners became recognizable. The crowd stared in wonderment. Well in
the lead and increasing that lead with every long, perfect stride came
an unknown, a youth with pale cheeks disked with crimson, a youth
of medium height with lithe body and long legs that were working like
parts of machinery. Back of him ran Hooker; beyond, dim figures told of
a struggle between Rindgely and the junior for third place. It was the
stentorian voice of the big fellow at the edge of the track that broke
the momentary silence of surprise.
“Pull up, Freshman, it’s all yours!” it shouted.
Then confusion reigned. The little throng raced along the track toward
the finish. Hooker’s friends urged him to win, while others applauded
the unknown. And in a second it was all over, mile race and fall
meeting. A white-clad form sped across the finish six yards in the
lead, tossed his arms in air, swerved to the left, and pitched blindly
into the throng.
[Illustration: A white-clad form sped across the finish.]
“What’s the matter with Seven?” shrieked a small youth at Stearns’s
elbow. The track-team captain turned.
“Who was that fellow that won?” he demanded.
“Ware,” was the jubilant reply. “Ware, ’07!”