WHAT A LAUGH DID
A few minutes later Don was sitting in a corner of the grand stand,
smothered in a pile of blankets and with his injured ankle bound in wet
bandages. Beside him were two boys of about his own age, one of whom,
the lad whom he had addressed as Paddy, was solicitously slopping cold
water from a tin can over his ankle at frequent intervals. Nothing
serious, Professor Beck had decided, only a strained tendon; and so Don
had been helped to his present position, from where he could watch the
race run out. He looked pale and woe-begone; but he managed to smile
now and then in answer to Paddy’s sallies.
“Paddy” Breen--his real name was Charles--had been given his nickname
two years before, when he was a little red-headed junior too small to
resent it had he been so inclined. Paddy’s forbears had been Irish a
generation or two back, and although there was little about the boy
to suggest the fact, barring his red hair and gray eyes and sunny
nature, the name was somehow distinctly appropriate, and it had stuck
to him through his junior and lower middle years and promised to
stick forever. Paddy played center on the first eleven, a position for
which his broad shoulders and hips and great strength eminently fitted
him. To-day he was attired in a faded and torn red sweater, a pair
of equally disreputable moleskin trousers, two red and black striped
stockings whose appearance told a story of many battles, a pair of
badly scuffed tan shoes, and a golf cap of such bold and striking tones
of brown, green, and scarlet as to stamp it at once as brand-new.
The lad who sat on the other side of Don was of even more generous
build than Paddy Breen. Dave Merton’s shoulders were broad and set
well back, giving him a look of great power. He was, perhaps, the
least bit overgrown for his seventeen years, for he topped Paddy by an
inch and Don by two. But he looked very healthy and happy, and was as
good-natured a fellow as any at the Academy. His hair was black and his
eyes dark, giving him a more somber coloring than his bosom companion,
Paddy, but, like the latter, he preferred smiling to frowning. Dave had
two great ambitions in life at present--namely, to throw the hammer
farther than any other Hilltonian and to excel at study. The latter
seemed quite within the range of possibility, but as for Dave’s hammer
throwing it was a school joke at which even Dave could laugh. Paddy
Breen was a brilliant pupil; Dave Merton a hard-working one. Paddy was
an excellent football player; Dave an indifferent performer with the
weights. Both were leaders in their classes--Dave was a senior--and
popular throughout the school. Their friendship was as much a joke as
Dave’s hammer throwing and the two were inseparable.
“Beaten?” Paddy was saying scornfully. “Never, me boy. Sure ’tis only
beginning we are; just wait till we git our breath!” Paddy, as though
to lend indorsement to his nickname, at times dropped into a brogue
acquired with great labor from such classics as Charles O’Malley and
Tom Burke.
“I only wish we had begun earlier in the race, Paddy,” answered Don
hopelessly. “Who is ahead in the bunch there, Dave--can you make out?”
The leaders, House and Beaming, were now far up the course and the next
group of runners were some distance behind. Farther back of them other
contestants straggled. Two runners were out of the race. A Shrewsburg
boy had given up on the second round and was philosophically watching
the contest from the top of a distant bank, and a Hillton fellow,
Turner, had gone to the dressing room suffering with an attack of
cramp. In answer to Don’s question Dave studied the distant runners for
a space in silence.
“Well, that’s Northrop in the lead all right, Don, and the next two
fellows are St. Eustace men. Then Moore and a Shrewsburg chap, and
another St. Eustace man, and--and one of our team--I can’t make out
who.” Dave looked frowningly across the field.
“Which one?” asked Paddy. “The fellow with the long legs just taking
the hedge? Why, man, that’s Wayne, of course; no mistaking him.”
“So it is,” answered Don. “He’s doing well. It would be queer if he
managed to keep his present place and got in third, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, he won’t,” said Dave, “for Jones has passed him. Good old Jones!
Just look at him spurt!”
“Those two men just behind Northrop are Keller and Gould, of St.
Eustace,” said Don. “Well, I guess we’re dished. House and Beaming
are sure of first and second place; Northrop ought to get third;
then either Gould or Keller is pretty certain to finish ahead of
Moore--perhaps both will; that would make the score something like
twelve to twenty-four, supposing we got three men in after Keller and
Gould.”
“There’s a good half mile to cover yet, my lad,” said Paddy cheerfully.
“There’s lots may happen in that distance. Look there; those fellows
are changing all around. And, by Jove, fellows, look at Beaming!”
Beaming was dropping back and House was alone at the turn of the
course. And some one--it seemed as though it _must_ be Northrop, of
Hillton--was closing up the long gap between the leaders and the next
group at a fabulous pace. And even as the three boys on the grand
stand strained their sight a second runner left the group as though it
were standing still and shot after Northrop--if it was Northrop. The
runners were too far off to allow of the watchers being certain as to
their identity, but a look of hope crept into Don’s face. There seemed
nothing to do save wait until the runners appeared at the railroad a
third of a mile away, until Paddy spied a pair of field glasses in
the hands of a boy in the throng below and unceremoniously gained
possession of them. He passed them to Don, and the latter, leaning for
support on Dave and Paddy, swept the course with them.
“Northrop’s ahead of Beaming!” he cried. “And Jones is almost up to
him! House is leading by forty yards or more! A Shrewsburg fellow is
running even with Keller and Gould! Paddy, we’ve still got a show!”
“Where’s Wayne?” asked Dave.
“And Jones?” asked Paddy.
“Wayne? I--can’t--see him. Hold on; yes, there he is! He’s at the
back of the bunch; a Shrewsburg fellow’s passing him hand over fist.
Jones is gaining, Paddy; he’s creeping up. There they go over the bank
jump. Some fellow’s done up--it’s Keller; Jones has passed him.” Don
excitedly turned his glasses toward a point nearer home. “House still
leads and is spurting, hang him! Northrop’s fifty yards behind him, and
Beaming--no, fellows, it’s Moore! Moore’s in third place!”
“What?” cried Dave. “What’s up with Beaming?”
“Don’t know; he looks tuckered. Hello!”
“What is it, Don? Talk out; don’t be so plaguey slow!”
“A Shrewsburg chap has gained fifth place and looks as though he were
going to beat Beaming in the next twenty yards. What do you think of
that? Jones and Wayne are both gaining. By Jove, fellows, we may get it
yet! Let’s go down to the finish; help me down, Dave.”
“If only Jones and Wayne can last,” said Paddy, “we could win, couldn’t
we? But Wayne--” Paddy shook his head as they descended from the stand
and went toward the finish line. “Do you think he can hold out, Don?”
Don shook his head dubiously.
At that moment Wayne was wondering the same thing. He had surprised
himself by staying in the race up to the present moment. He had entered
the contest only to oblige Don. “I don’t ask you to hurt yourself,” the
latter had explained. “Drop out when you are tired. It will be good
practice and will save us from entering with only nine fellows.” So
Wayne had laughingly consented. As he had passed runner after runner in
the first two rounds of the course he had begun to ask himself what it
meant. Don had told him that he had the making of a good long-distance
man, but he hadn’t given much heed to the statement; apparently Don
was right. After the first mile he had begun to suffer a little, and
now, with the race almost over, he would like to have dropped out and
spent about ten minutes lying on his back, but it seemed a poor thing
to give up so near the end, and so he found himself still pounding
away, with his legs very stiff and his breath apparently about to fail
him at every effort. He realized that the ground had become softer and
more slippery and that snow was falling. Then he crossed the track and
struggled on toward the next obstacle, a three-and-a-half-foot hedge.
Wayne hated the hedges. He was too heavy to hurdle them well, and
he invariably jumped short and lost precious time getting his feet
untangled. Luckily he was done with that nightmare the water jump,
since on the last round it was avoided and the course led over the
brook by the railroad and thence straight down to the finish. As he
approached the hedge Wayne drew himself together for a last effort, and
at the take-off put all his strength into the leap. But unfortunately
the turf was bare at that spot and his foot slipped as he jumped.
“Thank goodness!” he thought, when he had stopped rolling. “Now I can
lie here decently until the whole thing’s over with!”
But his sensation of joyous relief was rudely dispelled. Over the hedge
leaped a boy with a blue monogram on his shirt, who, as he caught sight
of Wayne’s predicament, grinned broadly. In a trice Wayne had struggled
to his feet and had taken up the chase race again, rage in his heart.
“He laughed at me, hang him!” he panted. “I’ll just beat him out if I
die for it!”
The St. Eustace boy was several yards ahead already, but Wayne threw
back his head and ran desperately. A roar of voices from down the
field told him that the first man had finished. He put every ounce of
strength into the struggle, thinking nothing of who was winning, only
determined to beat the chap who had laughed at him. And as he crossed
the railroad the knowledge that he was gaining on the St. Eustace
runner brought joy to his heart.
Down at the finish line the air was filled with the cheers of the St.
Eustace supporters, who, though few in number, were strong of voice.
House had finished first and captured the individual championship
and prize. And now, almost side by side, and struggling valiantly
for second place, came the two Hillton men, Northrop and Moore, and
the wearers of the crimson went wild with joy and shouted until both
runners had crossed the line, Northrop in the lead, and had been led
away to the dressing room.
Don was busy with pencil and paper now, while Paddy looked over his
shoulder and Dave scowled up the course and waited impatiently for
the next runner to swing into sight around the corner of the little
knoll that hid the railroad track from the finish line. Then two white
figures broke into view almost simultaneously.
“A Shrewsburg fellow and a St. Eustace fellow!” cried Dave. “I think
the last is Beaming. Yes, it is!”
The runner with the green S won the line a good three yards ahead
of the almost breathless Beaming, and a little group of Shrewsburg
High School fellows broke into applause. Beaming had to be well-nigh
carried from the course, although protesting faintly that he could walk.
Don’s paper now held the following figures:
Hillton. St. Eustace. Shrewsburg.
2 1 4
3 5
“Two men each and we’re one figure ahead,” whispered Don. “There’s some
one, Dave--three fellows. Who are they?”
“St. Eustace fellow ahead,” answered Dave.
“It’s Gould!” cried a voice from near by, and the supporters of the
down-river academy cheered wildly.
“Hurrah!” yelled Paddy. “Erin go bragh! There’s good old Jones! And a
Shrewsburg fellow hot after him.”
Don tried to jump, but found he couldn’t because of his strained ankle
and contented himself with a hair-raising yell. Then he added a 6 to
the St. Eustace score, an 8 to that of Shrewsburg, and a 7 to Hillton’s
row of figures. For Gould, Jones, and the Shrewsburg runner crossed the
line in the order given amid the cheers of the three rival contingents.
“It’s a tie so far,” shouted Paddy, as he added up the few figures.
“St. Eustace has twelve points, Dave, and so have we. By Jove! it all
depends on the next man, Don, doesn’t it? Can you see any one, Dave?”
“No one in sight yet. Let’s hope the first will be a Hillton chap,
fellows. But even if it isn’t the score’s bound to be close. Wonder
what’s become of ‘Old Virginia’?”
That was a nickname that Paddy had bestowed upon Wayne Gordon in
allusion to the latter’s native State.
“I’m afraid Wayne’s dropped out of it,” answered Don, with a tremble in
his voice, “but still----”
“St. Eustace wins!”
Half a dozen voices took up the cry as a fleet-footed runner whose
breast bore the blue monogram came quickly into sight. The three boys
groaned in unison. St. Eustace’s fourth man was speeding toward the
finish.
“Done for,” whispered Dave.
“Wait a bit!” cried Paddy. “There’s two of them there. Who’s the second
chap?”
Paddy was right. Directly behind the St. Eustace runner sped a second
youth, so close that he seemed to be treading upon the former’s heels.
“It’s one of our fellows, Don!” cried Dave.
“I don’t think so. I--oh, why doesn’t he come out so that we can see!”
“I’m afraid it’s another Shrewsburg chump,” said Paddy dolefully. “Oh,
hang the luck, anyhow!”
“Wait!” cried Don. “He’s coming out! There--there he comes! He’s trying
to pass, and--and----”
“It’s Wayne!” cried Dave and Paddy in unison.
And Wayne it was. Slowly, doggedly, he drew from his place back of
the St. Eustace man and fought his way inch by inch alongside. The
cheering spectators saw the wearer of the blue glance swiftly at the
Hillton runner and throw back his head. But the boy beside him refused
to be thrown off and down the course they came together, their tired
limbs keeping time to the frenzied cheers of the throng.
“St. Eustace wins! Keller’s ahead!”
“Hillton’s race! Gordon leads!”
And then, high above the babel of a hundred voices, sounded a mighty
shout from Paddy:
“Come on, ‘Old Virginia!’”
Wayne, racing along stride for stride with the St. Eustace runner,
heard the cry and made a final, despairing effort.
And then the crowd was thick about him, Dave and Paddy were holding him
up, Don was hugging him ecstatically, and the fellows were laughing and
shouting as though crazy; and Wayne, panting and weak, wondered what it
all meant.
It only meant that Hillton had won by a yard and that the final score
stood: Hillton, 21; St. Eustace, 22; Shrewsburg, 43.