THE LAST EVENT
Eleven men had entered for the two-mile run, six from Robinson and
five from Erskine. Of these, we know Ware, Conroy, and Hooker, wearers
of the purple ribbon, and have just heard of Burns, the Brown’s crack
long-distance runner. In view of the result of the race, it may be well
to mention also Tammen, another Robinson entry, who, until to-day,
had been viewed as a second-rater. For the others, they were big and
little, fair and dark, and all with their spurs still to win. Taken
together, they were a clean-built, healthy lot as they stood at the
starting line, their white running pants and white shirts--the latter
crossed by the purple ribbon or the brown and white--just tinged with
saffron by the long rays of the setting sun. The starter glanced again
at his pistol.
“_Set!_” he cried.
And as the runners put their weights forward and poised arms front
and back, the pistol spoke and the spiked shoes bit at the cinders
as the men strove for the inside of the track. The timers looked
up from their watches and the group about the line broke up. Ten
minutes--possibly a little less, perhaps a little more--must elapse
before the result could be known and Erskine or Robinson could claim
the meet. For by a freak of fortune each college had now 54 points
to its credit, and final victory would go to that one whose colors
first brushed the string at the finish. Whether the spring’s labor and
planning was to be crowned with victory or draped with defeat depended
on who won first place and its 5 points.
A knowledge of this accompanied Allan all through the race, now
spurring him on to determined effort, now casting him into the depths
of hopelessness and despair. The meet depended upon him, and he wished
with all his heart that it didn’t. For from the first instant he
knew that he was not in a condition to do his best. He was aware of
high-strung nerves and a general feeling of worry. For the latter there
was no longer any reason; but reason or no reason, it remained. The
last two days and their accompanying nights of unrefreshing slumber had
had their effect. For the rest, his muscles were strong and supple, his
lungs eager for their task.
Half-way around the first lap he had secured the lead, none disputing
it with him, and had settled down into that apparently slow pace
which makes the two-mile event look so unexciting at the first. He
knew himself capable of making that pace for the entire distance and
finishing comparatively fresh, but he also knew that Burns, who was
coming serenely along half-way back down the length of the string,
could stand it quite as well, and could probably sprint in the last
quarter mile and beat him out. He decided then to increase the pace, in
the hope of wearing the Robinson crack out, yet knowing that to make
too fast a race would finish him up just as surely as it would Burns.
When the home-stretch was reached in that first lap Allan set his legs
to faster work, and as he crossed the line and completed the eighth of
his distance, supporters of the Purple shook their heads. It wouldn’t
do, they murmured; he would run himself out in the first mile and a
half. Even Kernahan was a little worried, though nothing of the sort
showed on his face. At the end of the second lap Allan had not abated
his speed a jot.
As he passed the groups around the finish and the tents, his eyes were
set straight ahead, his long strides clung closely to the inner rim of
the track and he was holding himself well erect. Into his cheeks the
blood was creeping and dyeing them crimson, save for two disks that
showed whiter and whiter as the contest wore on. Behind Allan ran an
unknown Robinson man, then Hooker, then Tammen, then Burns. Conroy was
dangerously far back, and, with others in his neighborhood, was showing
that he didn’t approve of the pace.
Of all distances, the two miles is the hardest to run. Speed as a
factor in success is largely eliminated, and endurance is the supreme
test. The race requires a large courage on the part of the runner,
the courage to endure. It has been said, and truly, that it takes a
fast man for the sprints and a brave man for the distances. At the
completion of the fourth lap it is safe to say that five of the six
runners were as completely and hopelessly beaten as though the race was
finishing. Their legs dragged, their heads were falling back, and their
lungs were aching. But it had been the fastest half of a two-mile race
ever run on Erskine Field.
Of those in the van of the long line of runners, which now stretched
half-way around the oval, only three maintained their form at the
beginning of the fifth lap; those were Allan, Burns, and Tammen.
Save that the unknown Robinson man who had held second place at the
beginning had dropped back to fifth position, the order was unchanged.
Between Allan and his team-mate, Hooker, there was three yards of
cinders; between Hooker and Tammen, five yards more. Back of Tammen,
only a stride separating them, ran Burns, untroubled, and holding his
own with great, long, easy strides.
The turf was strangely green, for the low slanting beams of the sun
bathed it in their golden glow. The stands were almost deserted, for
the occupants were clustered all along the home-stretch, their eager
gaze following the white-clad figures on the darkening track.
If Allan’s form was still nearly what it had been at the beginning of
the race, it must not be supposed that the mile had not told. Usually
the two-miler finishes the half-distance in comparatively unwearied
condition and faces his troubles from then on, but Allan had set a
fast pace, and it had told on him, in spite of appearances. He felt
as he usually did at the end of the mile and a half, and he wondered
troubledly if he had not overdone it.
At the turns, now and then, a backward glance revealed the confident
face of Burns, while Hooker’s tortured breathing told its own tale.
Either he must last out or Robinson would take second and third
positions, as well as first. But he had grown fearful of his ability to
do so, and on the sixth lap he eased up on his pace. And half-way down
the back-stretch he wondered if he had not, after all, made a mistake
in doing so. For Burns, refusing to slow down, had bested Tammen and
Hooker and was apparently striving to pass Allan. But at the beginning
of the next lap, the seventh, Allan saw that the supreme struggle was
not yet, for Burns had slipped in behind him, apparently content to let
him set the pace for a while longer.
Then Hooker began to drop back. He had done his best, but his best was
not good enough. Tammen passed him and ranged himself behind Burns, and
these three, when the last lap began, were leading the field by sixty
yards or more. As they swept by the finish the shouts of the spectators
made a deafening roar in their ears. Allan had a dim vision of Pete
leaping alongside the track at the first turn, near the tents, waving
his long arms against the sunset glow and shouting unintelligible
things.
Once around that first turn, Allan shot a glance over his shoulder and
his heart leaped. Unless he was very much mistaken, Burns had lost
ground. That was Allan’s last turn of the head. From that time on it
was merely a question of hugging the rim of the track and enduring the
ache of limb and chest, doubting all the while his ability to hold his
place and all the while determining to do it.
He was right about Burns. That redoubtable runner had gone to pieces
all in the minute. At the second turn he was plainly no longer
dangerous to Allan, and back at the finish the throng roared its relief
and delight. And while it was still shouting, Tammen shot around Burns
and began to lessen the dozen or so yards between him and Allan. And
Allan, hearing vaguely a new note in the voices across the field and
the rapid pat of steps on the track behind him, guessed what was up and
felt his heart sink. Here was a man who could sprint, something Allan
had never been able to do satisfactorily, and here, in all probability,
was the winner of the race! Those gazing obliquely across the oval saw
Allan falter for a stride just at the farther turn, and their hearts
sank.
But after that first instant of what was something like terror, Allan
pulled himself together. In his own words, it was up to him to win, and
win he would, if only his breath would last that long. Tammen, three
yards behind him, made no attempt to pass him at the turns, but kept
himself in hand for the home-stretch. And Allan, grim and determined,
weakening with every long gasp for breath, knew that when the track
stretched straight before him to the distant white line the battle
would really begin, and that in the length of that distance the meeting
would be won or lost.
And then he finished the turn and the rim ran straight beside him.
And then the _pat_, _pat_ behind him crept nearer and nearer.
Presently, when the stretch was half run, Allan was conscious, without
looking--for he dared not take his eyes from the track ahead--of
something grayish-white at his elbow.
The time had come to do the impossible, to spur his weary limbs into
renewed effort, to force his panting lungs to greater exertion, and
to keep that grayish blur where it was. To have thrown himself--nay,
to have simply let himself drop onto the grass beside the track and
troubled no more about anything, would have been at that moment the
greatest pleasure of a lifetime. But along the track voices were
roaring and shrieking, and, although the words were sounds only, the
meaning of them he knew. They wanted him to win, and the desire found a
new echo in his heart. He wanted to win, and--why, yes, he _would_ win!
And now the white line was in plain sight, although he didn’t see
it, and the roar of voices was rising and growing. For a moment it
seemed to him that he was motionless, and that the dark ranks on
either side were moving slowly past him. And at the moment a glimpse
of whitish-gray at his right dispelled the illusion, and with a sob
for breath, he forced himself on. Once in that remaining twenty yards
he staggered, and the watchers held their breaths for fear, but he
recovered himself and plunged, reeling, on--and on--and on. Was there
no end to it? he wondered, in agony. The haunting blur beside him was
gone now, and----
“Hold up! Easy, man, easy!” cried a voice that he seemed to know, and
then dozens of arms were clutching him, and he let himself go. And as
his eyes closed a whitish form passed before them and dropped from
sight. Tammen, plucky to the last, was being lifted from the track,
where, defeated and exhausted, he had fallen. And Allan, with closed
eyes and tortured lungs, felt himself being carried to the tent, while
in his ears was a roar of sound that told of victory and a race well
run.