THE INDOOR MEETING
Mechanics’ Hall, Boston, was filled from floor to gallery, from doors
to stage. The hum of voices, the fluttering of programs, the slow
bellow of the announcer as, with megaphone at mouth, he gave the result
of the events, made a strange medley of sound.
From one corner of the floor to another there ran diagonally a
lime-marked lane. Since half past seven white-trunked figures had
rushed, half a dozen at a time, down this lane at top speed, had flung
themselves panting, with outstretched arms, against the mattresses at
the end, and had turned and trotted back to the dressing-rooms.
The supply had seemed inexhaustible. Heat after heat had been run in
the Forty Yards Novice, heat after heat in the Forty Yards Invitation,
heat after heat in the Forty Yards Handicap, and now the hurdles were
in place, the pistol was cracking forth, and white-clad forms were
flying breathlessly over the bars and breasting the red string at the
finish.
At each report of the pistol the center gallery leaped to its feet, the
hurdlers sprang into sight from below and sped away like arrows across
the yellow floor. Hurdles crashed, the crowd shouted, the racers flung
their arms at the tape and collapsed against the padded wall at the
end of the lane, and the center gallery sank into its seats again and
rustled its programs. And the announcer lifted his crimson trumpet:
“Forty-five Yards Hurdles--fourth heat won by No. 390, No. 3 second;
time, 6⅖ seconds.”
There were dozens of colleges, schools, and associations represented
there that night, and hundreds of competitors. There was the blue Y of
Yale, the crimson H of Harvard, the red C of Cornell, the green D of
Dartmouth, the purple E of Erskine, the brown R of Robinson, and many,
many other insignia flaunted on heaving breasts.
Thirty-odd officials, in immaculate evening clothes, lent a note of
sobriety to the colorful scene, while a blue-coated policeman, whose
duty it was to guard the long table of mugs and tankards, stood out
intensely against the gleam and glitter of the prizes. On the big
stage, the sloping bank of watchers looked from the floor like a bed
of waving somber-hued flowers. From a corner of the balcony came the
strains of brazen music.
The jumping standards were set and the competitors ranged themselves
along the edge of the track, their sweaters and dressing-gowns of all
colors thrown loosely about their bare shoulders. The Clerk of Course
could be heard at the dressing-room door summoning the men for the next
event:
“All out for the two miles!”
The sloping corners of the track rang with the footsteps of the
candidates as they warmed up. There were fifteen entries, and among
them were men from Harvard, Yale, Cornell, Massachusetts Institute of
Technology, Phillips Exeter Academy, and Erskine College. Erskine’s
representative was rather nervous as, with his number flapping at
his back, he was assigned the place at the pole in the front line.
Beside him was a Cornell runner whose prowess was well known, and
Allan Ware marveled at his own temerity. Surely, he had no chance
against the Cornell man, nor, for that matter, against several of the
others. Well, he would run as well as he knew how and take his beating
philosophically.
The fact was, that the intense excitement was unnerving him. And that
was why, when the starter had cried “Set!” Allan dashed forward, taking
half the line with him. For this misdemeanor he and three others were
promptly relegated to the last row. Then the command came again and the
pistol cracked.
At the first turn Allan had to fight to keep from being hustled from
the track. After the next corner the runners had settled down to their
work, a New York man making easy pace. Allan was well in front. The
nervousness had left him now and he had no thought for the cheering
spectators, for the blaring strains from the band, for anything, in
short, save the struggle on hand. Lap after lap was reeled off until
the race was half finished. Allan was still holding his own, with the
consciousness of much power in reserve. The New York man still kept the
lead, while close on his heels ran one of the Cornell contingent.
Presently a Yale man fought his way up to Allan, and for half a lap
they contested fifth place. Then, at a turn, the Yale man took the bank
and slid into the lead, and Allan was sixth. He expected changes ahead.
Of course the New York runner would not attempt to keep the lead much
longer. He would drop back, Allan would overhaul the Yale chap, and in
the last two laps he would call on the reserve power he was certain he
had and fight it out to the finish.
He looked back. The nearest runner was several yards away and didn’t
appear dangerous. The relative positions remained unchanged for another
lap, and then things began to happen.
The Yale man dropped back, a second Cornell man--Allan recognized him
as the one who had been beside him at the start--spurted into third
place, and Allan found himself still running fifth. He had lost count
of the laps, but believed there could not be more than two left.
So he started to crawl up. At the next corner, that by the
dressing-rooms, he passed the Cornell man who had been second for so
long; his duty was done and he was easing up on his pace. Down the
stretch Allan gained on a Technology runner, but failed to pass him.
Suddenly the gong announcing the last lap clanged. Allan glanced across
the hall. The New York man was still in the lead, and was increasing
that lead at every stride.
Allan threw back his head and fought for third place. On the next
stretch footsteps sounded behind him. At the first corner Allan just
succeeded in keeping the lead; on the short stretch, a Yale man passed
him and left him as though standing. It was all up now; he was fifth,
and there was no chance of bettering his position. The leader, well
ahead of the Cornell man, was taking the last corner. The Yale man
who had just passed Allan was taking third place hand over fist.
The Technology runner was plainly faltering, and yet, thought Allan
savagely, here was he, with all sorts of power of lung and muscle left,
dragging along behind him!
He clasped his hands tighter and threw himself forward. Fourth place
was better than fifth, he told himself, and at least he would not be
beaten by a man who was ready to fall. So up he went, working as hard
to beat out the Technology runner as though first place was at stake.
And beat him he did, and turned off of the track and walked back to the
dressing-room apparently as untired as when he had started.
“You lost that race,” said Kernahan, “when you lost your place in the
first row. But don’t you care; you’ve learned a thing or two, and one
of them’s to wait for the pistol.”
“But I’m not decently winded,” Allan complained. “I could run the mile
now, and yet those chaps beat me.”
“Sprinting ability is what you’ve got to learn, my boy. And with three
months before the dual----”
“Hang the dual!” said Allan, petulantly. “I wanted to win this.”
“Well, there’s the mile yet,” said Billy, soothingly.
But the mile brought Allan scant satisfaction. He was given a handicap
of thirty-five yards, and, although this time he was careful to wait
for the pistol, he came to the conclusion when half the distance was
run that he might as well drop out of the race. There were almost fifty
entries, and it seemed less a race than a fast-moving procession. The
turns were always filled with fellows elbowing and fighting, and after
the half-distance it was hard to tell who the leaders were, so close
they were to the tail-enders.
Rindgely and Harris had also entered, and about the only satisfaction
Allan was able to gather was derived from the fact that he had them
beaten from the start. But the smaller handicaps allowed those youths
had something to do with that. Allan never knew what number he was at
the finish, and didn’t much care.
In the dressing-room, Harris, Rindgely, Long, and Monroe--the latter
the only Erskine entry who had won a place--were finding balm in the
fact that Robinson hadn’t showed up in a single event.
“Wait until the team race, though,” said Rindgely, darkly. “That’s
where they’ll get us; you’ll see.”
“Don’t believe it,” said Harris, stoutly. “When does it come off?”
“After this, I think,” said Long. “Who’s got a program?”
“That’s right,” said Monroe. “Hello, Ware! Say, that was a perfect
mess, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was,” growled Allan. “I never knew whether I was running this
lap or the last one.”
“Or the one ahead,” added Harris.
“Thought you were going to do something,” said Rindgely. “You had a
good chance.”
“Did I?” Allan responded, with intense sarcasm. “All right, only I
didn’t know it.”
“Let’s get out of here and see the Harvard and Penn race,” Long
suggested. “Where’s our team?”
“They’re out there somewhere. Thatcher says we’re going to get it put
all over us,” said Allan.
“Thatcher’s an old raven,” said Harris, as they crowded out to where
they could watch the race. “If he runs as well as he croaks, we’re all
right.”
Harvard secured the race with University of Pennsylvania, and though
the result was not long in doubt, yet the crimson-clad runners were
forced to better the record by three-fifths of a second. Then the
clerk’s voice was heard at the dressing-room door:
“All out for Erskine-Robinson Team Race! All out!”
Of Erskine’s relay team, only Thatcher, the captain, was an experienced
runner. The others--Poor, Gibbons, and Tolmann--had earned the right to
represent the college at the trials, but for all of that were unknown
quantities. They were all of them, Thatcher included, small men; Poor
was little over five feet in height, and looked as though he had never
had enough to eat. As they trotted around the track, getting warmed
up, Robinson’s candidates overtopped them to a man. It was a big,
long-limbed quartet that Robinson had sent, and had the result depended
on height and length of leg alone the Brown would have had the race won
at the start.
Allan had secured a place near the front of the throng at the
dressing-room door, and beside him, noticeable because of the evening
clothes which he wore, was one of the officials, an inspector whose
name was down on the program as “Horace L. Pearson, N. Y. A. C.” It was
while the two teams were still warming up that Allan heard his name
spoken, and turned to find Mr. Pearson in conversation with Harris.
“Beg your pardon,” the inspector was saying, “but the man beyond you
there is Ware, of your college, isn’t he?” But he wasn’t looking in
Allan’s direction at all.
“No, sir,” answered Harris, “that’s Rindgely.”
“Sure of it?”
“Quite, sir,” replied Harris, smiling.
“Hm! I saw he was down on the card as Rindgely, but I thought maybe it
was a mistake. What does the other man, Ware, look like?”
“He’s here somewhere,” said Harris. And then his voice dropped and
Allan, looking carefully away, felt the inspector’s gaze upon his
face. He wondered what it might mean and why Rindgely had been mistaken
for him, but his speculation was short-lived, for at that moment the
pistol cracked and two runners, one with his white shirt crossed with
a brown silk ribbon and the other bearing a purple E on his breast,
sprang forward and fought for the lead at the first turn. The Erskine
man was Thatcher and his opponent was named Guild. As they reached the
other end of the track and sped past the dressing-room, conflicting
shouts of encouragement from Erskine and Robinson supporters followed
them.
Thatcher had secured the pole at the start and had leaped into the lead
at the turn. He was still ahead, but Guild was close behind him, his
long strides seeming to be always on the point of taking him past, yet
never doing so. Thatcher’s plan was plainly to hand over the race to
the next runner of his team with a good, big margin of gain, trusting
that, if unable to increase the advantage, the other Erskine men would
at least hold what they had. But the big gain wasn’t forthcoming yet.
As he neared the starting-point and the finish of the first of his two
laps he strove desperately to leave his opponent, but it was not until
the last lap was a third run that daylight opened up between the two.
The Robinson chap was proving himself a worthy foe. Half-way around the
last lap there was ten feet between Purple and Brown. From there on
down to the mark, where the next two men stood with eager, outstretched
hands, Thatcher gained and gained; but he had commenced late, and when
Guild touched the hand of his team-mate and fell over into the arms of
the Robinson trainer he was only fifteen yards to the bad.
Gibbons, short of leg and rather heavy of build, was flying over the
first turn as though possessed, and behind him pattered Thorpe of
Robinson. Down the stretch they flew, while the band was drowned by
the shouts of the onlookers. It was a pretty contest that, even though
to discerning ones, at least, the end was not in doubt. Gibbons looked
like a small whirlwind, and gave every indication of killing himself
before the second lap was finished, but Thorpe, with long and easy
strides, ate up the interval between them foot by foot, and when the
second lap began was in position to take the lead whenever he wanted to.
Half-way down the side he did so. Gibbons fought him off desperately
for an instant, but at the turn Robinson led by a yard. Then it was
that Gibbons surprised even his trainer, for, instead of steadily
dropping back, he refused to yield an inch and chased Thorpe down to
the finish like an avenging fate, crossing the line a bare yard behind
him.
That yard of advantage was five yards half through the next lap,
Tolmann failing to prove a match for Brine of Robinson. Foot after foot
and yard after yard opened up between them, and when the last lap began
the Brown’s runner was an eighth of a lap ahead.
“Well, that’s settled right now,” said Long, who had jostled his way to
Allan’s side. “If we still had Thatcher we might stand some show, but I
guess Poor can’t cut down that lead enough to make it look even close.”
“Thatcher’s idea was all right,” said Allan, “but he didn’t know how
good his man was. Robinson’s next man is her captain, I think, and I
suppose he ought to be the best of the lot.”
“He ought to be, but maybe he isn’t. Poor is a plucky little chap, and
maybe he’ll give Jones a run for his money. Look at him!”
At the other end of the hall Erskine’s last hope was leaning over the
mark, one slim white arm thrust forward and one reaching impatiently
back toward where Tolmann, swaying and gasping, was vainly striving
to save the race. Poor looked plucky without a doubt, and when, after
what seemed an age, Tolmann struck weakly at his hand and staggered
off the track, he was off like a shot, his thin legs twinkling like a
salmon-colored streak as he followed the Robinson captain. The latter
was almost a quarter of a lap ahead and was running easily, yet keeping
a watchful glance upon his opponent. And, as it proved, that watchful
glance was not thrown away.
The band blared forth a two-step with might and main, supporters of the
rival colleges clapped, shouted, and shrieked, and the runners’ shoes
_tap-tapped_ on the floor and pounded over the built-up corners.
And then, of a sudden, a roar started among the audience and gathered
volume and swept deafeningly across the great hall, and Allan,
raising himself on tiptoes, gave a shout of joy. For just an instant
or two after passing the second turn the Robinson captain had become
inattentive to his pursuer, and in that brief moment Poor had literally
eaten up space with his flying feet until now twenty yards would have
spanned the distance between them. Jones, warned by the applause,
leaped ahead, but Poor refused to yield an inch he had gained. More
than that, he kept on gaining.
The bell clanged the beginning of the last lap of the race and the
Robinson runner swept over the line fifteen yards ahead of Poor, his
long strides making the latter’s look ridiculously short by comparison.
But if his strides were short, they were also rapid, and Poor, his
little, weazened face screwed into an agony of effort, chased his
opponent down in the next half lap, and at the second turn was barely
two yards behind. Jones was plainly worried. As he pounded around the
corner his right arm was thrust out in an involuntary effort to keep
his opponent from passing him. But Poor was not able to do that on
the turn, and for the next stretch their relative positions remained
unchanged.
As they dashed by the group at the dressing-room door, Allan and Long
and Harris and the others shrieked exhortations and encouragement to
their runner. Then the next turn was taken, Jones stumbled, saved
himself, and led the way down the last stretch, his head back, his
mouth wide open, and his speed lessening at every stride.
But if he was ready to give up, so, too, was Poor, who had run a
quarter of a lap farther than he. And all the way down that stretch the
Robinson captain struggled and faltered and the Erskine runner dogged
his steps, unable to pass him. And then something happened, and so
quickly that it was all over before the sight had time to register the
meaning of it on the brain.
Half-way over the turn, and twenty yards from the finish, Jones swayed,
tripped, and rolled over to the edge of the track, and Poor, less than
two yards behind him, plunged blindly over him, sprawled and rolled
along for three yards, and then, in some strange manner, found his feet
and took up the running again. So, too, did Jones, but the larger man
had fallen more heavily, and for an instant remained dazed upon the
floor.
That instant decided the race, for although he was up again almost
before the audience had sensed the catastrophe, yet he had lost the
lead. For the last few yards the two men, giddy, swaying, their heads
fallen almost onto their breasts, strove weakly for the line. The next
moment Poor threw out his arms and sprawled forward on his face across
the chalk-mark and Jones, stumbling past him, fell, sliding on hands
and knees to the edge of the track.
Down by the dressing-room door Allan and the others were whooping it up
joyfully, for Erskine had turned defeat into victory and won the relay
by a scant three yards!