“ON YOUR MARK!”
Once more the crowds were moving out to Erskine Field. It was after one
o’clock, and experienced persons knew that there were no reserved seats
and that “first come first served” was the rule. The midday sun shone
warmly and only enthusiasts looked forward with pleasure to sitting on
the unshaded stands for the next three hours. Robinson’s athletes went
out William Street in two barges, their paraphernalia following them in
a tumble-down express wagon drawn by a limping sorrel nag, whose bridle
was draped with brown and white.
The contents of the barges were viewed with polite interest, but the
wagon awakened amusement on the part of sober citizens and ribald mirth
on the part of undignified undergraduates. Nearing the field, the eyes
caught sight above the tree-tops of the great purple banner, with its
snowy E, which fluttered lazily at the top of the tall staff. At half
after one the stands were thickly sprinkled with spectators, and the
flutter of programs--used in lieu of fans--was visible across the
field; with a little imagination one could have likened the ladies, in
their bright and many-colored gowns and hats, to flowers, and thought
the fluttering programs lighter petals stirred in a breeze.
On the track, runners and sprinters were jogging to and fro and on the
edge of the field the officials were gathering, their purple and gold
badges glowing bravely in the sunlight. Two big tents had been erected
at the end of the oval nearest the gates, and about them white-garbed
contestants lay or sat on outspread dressing-gowns, while rubbers and
trainers came and went among them like anxious hens among their broods.
In front of the Erskine dressing-tent sat Allan. He had been up and
down the straightaway three times and was still breathing heavily as
a result. He had no hope now of being allowed to enter his event, and
even if he were, he reflected, he would stand small show of winning,
since it was evident that he was in poor shape. Physically he seemed
fit enough, but he was aware all the time of a feeling of nervousness
and depression that was ill-calculated to help him in a grueling two
miles.
Word had been left at the telegraph office that if a message came for
him it was to be rushed out to the field as fast as possible, and to
this end a horse and buggy from Pike’s stable was already standing
in front of the door. Stearns was taking no chances, for now that
Rindgely had been declared too ill to enter the contest, another five
points were almost certain to go to Robinson, and if it was possible
for Allan to enter the two miles and make a fight for a place, he must
do it. Stearns was worried and down-hearted.
Even the most optimistic calculators could not figure a victory for
Erskine with first places in both the long-distance events conceded to
her rival. As a last resort, Stearns had secured the postponement of
the two miles to the tag end of the afternoon. He had thrown himself on
the generosity of the Robinson captain and explained the predicament.
And the Robinson captain, who was Brooks, their crack hurdler, had
consented, a piece of sportsmanship which met with the condemnation of
his trainer and many of the team. But the expedient promised to work
little good, for it was plain that if Allan’s telegram to his aunt
had reached her she would have replied not later than yesterday. But
Stearns was in desperate straits and no chance was too slight for him
to seize upon.
At a few minutes after two o’clock the pistol was heard from the far
end of the straightaway, and Erskine took the first honors of the meet,
Stearns securing first place and Leroy second in the 100 yards dash,
and earning 8 points for the Purple.
To chronicle the afternoon’s proceedings in detail would be a tiresome
as well as an unnecessary task. In the 120 yards hurdles, which
followed the first dash, and in the 220 yards hurdles, which came later
on the program, Robinson had things pretty much her own way, Brooks,
her captain, taking first place handily in each. Robinson won 12 points
in these events, and Erskine 6. Stearns again showed his mettle in
the 220 dash, and Robinson got second and third; 5 points for Erskine
and 4 points for her adversary. In the quarter-mile the best the home
team could do was to secure third place, and that by the narrowest
margin, though the time, 50⅖ seconds, was absurdly slow. When the mile
was called, the 220 yards hurdles had not been run and the score on
Professor Nast’s sheet stood: Erskine, 18; Robinson, 18. So far things
were happening in a way that brought joy to the professor’s heart, but
the field events were still undecided and the long distances were yet
to run.
The mile event worked the audience up to the highest stage of
excitement, and for a long while, in fact until the three-quarters had
been passed, the race was most anybody’s. But after that Coolbroth of
Robinson sprang into the lead, closely pursued by Harris of Erskine,
and Patterson of Robinson. The finish was made in that order, Harris
and Patterson fighting for second honors all the way around the last
lap, and Harris finally winning his 3 points by a bare two yards. The
hammer throw was decided about this time, and Robinson was credited
with first and third, Monroe winning second for Erskine. The score
now was not so satisfactory to the supporters of the Purple, since it
stood: Erskine, 24; Robinson, 30.
The Purple exceeded expectations in the broad jump, allowing her rival
but 1 point. In the high jump, however, she didn’t show up so well;
Robinson took first and third places. After the 220 yards hurdles,
which, as has been already told, were won by Brooks, Erskine securing
but 1 point, the score was heavily in the Brown’s favor, 45 to 36. By
this time the afternoon had worn well toward sunset. Only the shot-put,
the 880 yards run, the pole-vault and the two miles remained. Of these,
Robinson was conceded 8 points in the pole-vault, 5 in the shot-put
and 1 in the 880. It was difficult to see how Erskine could pull out
of the meet ahead. In fact, it was evident that she couldn’t. Even
Tommy, normally optimistic, had lost hope. While the competitors in the
hurdles were trotting off to the tents he hurried across to where the
shot-putters were at work. As he approached, six of the nine candidates
were donning their dressing-gowns, and he knew that the trials were
over and that the six were out of it. Then he pursed his lips and
whistled softly. Of the three competitors remaining for the finals, two
were Erskine men, Monroe and--yes, the other was Pete! The Robinson
candidate was Tiernan, who had won first in the hammer throw. Pete
hailed Tommy and drew him aside.
“Have you got that paper safe?” he asked.
“Yes.” Tommy reassured him by allowing a corner of it to peep forth
from his inside pocket. Pete nodded and glanced toward the tent.
“For goodness’ sake, don’t lose it,” he said. “And keep a watch for the
two miles. We’re not through here yet and I don’t want the scheme to
slip up.”
“All right. And say, Pete!”
“Yep?”
“Do your best, old man, won’t you?” begged Tommy. “They’re ’way ahead
of us, but if we get first and third out of this we may have a fighting
chance.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Pete, untroubled. “I’ve got Monroe dead to
rights, anyway.”
“Yes, but beat Tiernan, Pete; we’ve _got_ to win!”
“Well, just as you say, Tommy,” answered Pete, smiling at the other’s
look of tragedy. “For your sake, Tommy, I’ll do my best.”
“Burley!” called the field judge, and Pete drew his sweater off and
stepped into the ring. There were three competitors remaining, and each
was allowed three tries, the best of which was to count. Pete picked up
the shot, took up his position at the rear of the circle, placed the
weight in his broad right hand, threw his left arm out to balance him,
raised his left foot from the ground, and then, with a motion that was
neither hop nor glide, reached the front of the circle, brought his
right shoulder smartly round and sent the weight flying. The measurer
started to lay the end of the tape where the shot had struck, but
stopped at judge’s announcement.
“Foul,” said the latter. “You overstepped, Burley.”
Pete nodded carelessly and donned his sweater again. Kernahan, who had
approached during the try, beckoned to him, and they stepped aside.
“That won’t do, Pete,” said Billy. “Keep that elbow in to the body; you
had it spread way out that time. And mind the stop. Take all the time
you want, you know; there’s no hurry.”
Pete grinned.
“_That’s_ all right,” he said. “Don’t worry about me, Billy. I’ll get
it away all right next time.”
Monroe followed with a put of 43 feet 6 inches, and Tiernan bettered
this by half a foot. Again Pete peeled his sweater off and took up the
shot. As he stood there, balancing himself, he looked, with a careless,
good-natured smile on his face, like a giant who, for his amusement,
had entered the sports of pigmies. He was taller than Tiernan and
bigger everywhere than Monroe; the judge came barely to his shoulder.
The muscles of his arms were like great ropes under the clear skin.
Once more he crossed the ring, and once more the leaden ball was hurled
forward. From the stands came a chorus of applause. Tommy’s face
lighted, and even Billy gave an appreciative nod. The Robinson trainer,
standing across the circle, shot a quick glance at Pete as he stepped
out and took his sweater from the turf.
“Forty-four feet seven inches,” announced the judge, as he held the
tape to the edge of the stop-board. Tommy clapped Pete on the shoulder
and whispered his delight. Pete smiled good-humoredly.
“All out for the 880!” cried a voice across the oval. “Hurry up,
half-milers!”
Monroe made his second try, and the tape said 44 feet 1 inch. He turned
away in disgust. Pete smiled. Robinson’s champion took plenty of time
at his next try, and made a splendid put. He had exceeded Pete’s best
attempt and there was a breathless silence around the ring as the tape
was adjusted. Then,
“Forty-five feet two inches,” said the judge.
The Robinson trainer, who had looked anxious a moment since, smiled
demurely. Over on the starting line the half-milers were being placed.
Along the length of the stands the spectators were leaving their seats
here and there. Pete stepped into the seven-foot circle for his last
try. Tommy, a few feet away, watched him eagerly. With the shot in
his right hand, Pete looked across and dropped his left eyelid in a
portentous wink.
Tommy’s heart sank. If Pete would only stop his fooling for a minute,
he thought, and really put his heart into it! And while the thought
came to him, Pete was hopping across the ring and poising himself for
an instant at the front edge. Then his body swung around, his right
arm shot out like a steel spring, and the shot went arching over the
ground. Tommy’s heart leaped into his throat and then thumped wildly.
From the stands whose occupants were near enough to be able to follow
the shot-putting came a great roar of applause. Tommy, with his eyes
fixed intently on the tape, felt a hand seize his arm and pull him
around.
“Come along,” said Pete, “and find Nast.”
“Wait! Wait till we find out----”
“Find out nothing,” said Pete. “Monroe can’t touch that put!”
But even as Tommy hung back the judge looked up from the tape with a
smile on his face.
“Forty-five feet eleven inches!” he said.
“_Oh, bully!_” cried Tommy. “But Tiernan----”
“Huh!” said Pete.
From across the field came the sharp report of the pistol sending
the half-milers away, and as Pete and Tommy hurried to the tents the
white-clad runners swept by in a bunch on the first of their two laps,
Poor and Tolmann side by side in the lead, and Thatcher, Erskine’s main
hope, running warily well toward the rear. Around the turns they went
and entered the back-stretch, hundreds of voices urging them on.
Allan, a depressed-looking figure in his dragging drab gown, met them
as they crossed the track. There was no use asking him whether he had
received the longed-for message; one glance at his face was sufficient.
Pete took him aside out of the throng.
“You’re going to run, Allan,” he said, in low tones, “so get warmed up.
Now, don’t ask any questions, for I can’t answer ’em yet. Just do as I
tell you. It’s all right; you’re going to run, and if you don’t win out
I’ll--I’ll lick you!”
The expression of hope which had at first leaped into Allan’s face died
out again, but a look of curiosity remained.
“What--what do you mean?” he asked, wonderingly.
“Just what I say. You’re going to run, and if you want to do anything
in the race get your muscles stretched. Let go of me; I’m in a hurry.
Have you seen Nast?”
“I’ve found him,” said Tommy, hurrying up. “He’s gone over to the
finish. Here come the half-milers. Track, there!”
Once more the runners sped past, but now they were no longer bunched
together. In front, leading by half a dozen yards, ran Poor. Next came
Thatcher, then a Robinson man, then Tolmann. Behind Tolmann the rest of
the field pegged away, already out of the reckoning, barring accidents.
“All out for the two miles!” bawled the clerk.
Pete shot a glance at Tommy and the latter nodded. Together they turned
away.
“Get a move on, Allan,” cried Pete. “Don’t stand there like a wooden
Indian!” Allan, his face expressing wonder and returning hope, slipped
quickly out of his dressing-gown.
“I guess you’re joking, Pete,” he said, “but----”
“Is Mr. Ware here?” piped a shrill voice, and the blue-coated messenger
boy pushed his way through the throng about the tents. “Telegram for
Mr. Ware!”
With a cry Allan turned and seized the envelope from the boy’s hands
and tore it open. Under the gaze of dozens of curious eyes, he read the
words on the still damp sheet of yellow paper and turned with exultant
eyes to Pete and Tommy, who had paused at the edge of the track.
“It’s all right!” he cried. “Where’s Nast?” And he sped off around the
track. Tommy and Pete followed, and the latter, as he went, took a
folded sheet of foolscap from his pocket and tore it into tiny pieces.
“Hurry up for the two miles!” bawled the clerk again.
When Allan reached the finish he was unable for a moment to reach
Professor Nast, for the half-milers were tearing down the home-stretch
and the crowd was thick about the tape. Shouts of triumph, roars of
applause, arose. Down the cinders, their straining forms throwing long
wavering shadows before them, came Thatcher, Tolmann, and a Robinson
runner, the first two almost side by side, the third man four or five
yards behind. Then, in an instant more, the red string fluttered away
and Thatcher raced over the line, a winner by a bare yard over his
team-mate.
“Eight more points!” cried Tommy, gleefully. “Who knows how the
shot-put came out?”
“We got first and third,” answered Hal, turning. “Hello, Tommy, is
that you?” But Tommy was too busy casting up figures on his score to do
more than nod.
“Was Pete first?” he asked in a moment.
“First! Gosh, he was first by almost a foot. Tiernan fouled on his last
try, and----”
“How about Monroe?” asked Pete, worming his way forward.
“Hello, you old brick!” cried Hal, seizing his hand. “Why, Monroe did
something like forty-four feet two, I think.”
“_That’s_ all right,” said Pete.
By this time Allan had found Professor Nast, and the latter was reading
the message. It ran:
“Allan was at my house New York evening December twenty-sixth
except between eight and eight-thirty o’clock when he went
errand for me Thirty-ninth street. Could not have gone to
Brooklyn and did not if he says so. MARY G. MERRILL.”
The professor handed back the sheet of paper and put his hand on
Allan’s shoulder.
“Good,” he said, with satisfaction. “Go in and win, Ware.”
He pushed him toward where the long-distance men were assembling at
the start. Allan waited for no more, but darted down the track. As he
reached the group, his name was called and he answered as he slipped
into the second line of runners. The next instant Stearns was pulling
him aside, his eyes wide with eagerness.
“Is it all right?” he whispered. “Did you get word?”
“Yes, a minute ago. I’ve seen Nast.”
Stearns gave him a hug that left him almost breathless.
“Thank goodness!” he said, softly. “The meet’s tied at 54 points. The
whole thing depends on this, and we’ve got to have first place, Ware,
we’ve _got_ to! Watch that man Burns over there; the tall chap with the
tow hair; he’s dangerous. And-- Say, Billy,” turning to the trainer, who
had slipped across the track to them, “Ware’s in it, after all. I was
telling him to----”
“Get the lead at the start, or as soon as you can, and just simply hold
it, if you have to break a leg,” said Billy, quietly. “How are you
feeling?”
“I--I don’t know,” answered Allan. “But--I guess I’m all right.”
“Good. See that light-haired Robinson man over there at the pole? Well,
play for him, Ware. And don’t let him head you for a minute. All right
now.”
“All ready, there?” called the starter, as he dropped back and glanced
at the pistol in his hand. There was an instant of silence. Then,
“_On your mark!_” he cried.