IN TRAINING
“Candidates for the track team report to Professor Beck, at
the gymnasium, at 3.45 P. M., Saturday, February 12th.
“DONALD CUNNINGHAM, _Captain_.”
This notice was posted on the bulletin board in Academy Building one
morning, and fellows on their way to recitations read it and became
suddenly aware that, from an athletic standpoint at least, spring had
begun. From that same standpoint winter is a short-lived season in
Hillton--a mere ten weeks between the last football game and the call
for track team candidates; a brief space in which the hockey players
pose as heroes, the Hillton and St. Eustace chess clubs prepare for
and hold their annual contest, the debating club membership grows, the
school librarian is for once busy all day long, and the juniors conduct
mimic battles and sieges on the green, their citadels and ammunition
both constructed of snow. And then some morning while the mercury still
lingers affectionately about the zero mark a little square of paper
appears on the bulletin board, and, officially at least, the vernal
season is ushered in.
This year, as usual, with the appearance of the call for track team
candidates a veritable epidemic of athletic enthusiasm swept over the
Academy. The crew candidates, who for weeks past had been quietly
exercising with chest weights and dumb-bells and running around the
track without occasioning any particular notice, now went to work on
the rowing machines and were daily viewed by a throng of their fellows.
The baseball players congregated in the cage and pitched and batted and
slid about on the canvas to an accompaniment of low-voiced criticism
from chaps who pressed their noses through the wire meshes for a
half-hour at a time. Golfers polished up their clubs, bought brand new
books on the sport, and were to be found practicing putting in the
dormitory halls. A few lads flocked together in warm studies and talked
of wickets and overs and bowls, and tried hard to convince themselves
and each other that they were enthusiastic cricketers. And all the
while the ice on the river was thick and hard, the wind swept across
the green in wintry gusts, and the snow was piled high on either side
of the walks.
But if the green and the campus and the frozen paths were deserted,
the gymnasium, especially after two o’clock in the afternoon, was a
busy scene. Of the fifty-odd boys who reported for the track team,
forty-two were put to training. With most of them the new work was
disappointingly similar to that gone through with all winter. The chest
weights banged up and down, the rings swung about under the high roof,
the ladders creaked and bent between their braces, and the dumb-bells
and Indian clubs swung faster than ever. But many of the candidates
were put to work on the wooden track in the hour when twilight filled
the gymnasium with strange and grotesque shadows, and now and then some
candidate for honors with the sixteen-pound shot was allowed to toss
a leather-covered sphere about the place, to the imminent danger of
everybody’s toes.
Professor Beck, from a quiet, even-voiced, little gentleman, suddenly
became a commanding figure, who was here, there, and everywhere, and
whose least word was like a trumpet sound. Boys who were not candidates
for the track team or the baseball team or the crew or something--and
there appeared to be few of them in those days--were not admitted to
the floor of the gymnasium after a certain hour in the afternoon, and
so congregated at the little walled-off inclosure by the entrance and
scoffed or praised, envied or admired, to their heart’s content and to
the despair of the performers.
One afternoon, a few days subsequent to the beginning of the track
candidates’ training, the gymnasium was more than usually full and
noisy. The crew was hard at work in the rowing room, a half dozen
fellows were trotting about the track, and the boys under Don were
putting in a preliminary ten minutes at the weights. Taken as a whole
they were a fine-looking lot, though to the uninitiated many would
have appeared too slight in build for athletic success. These were
the sprinters and hurdlers and those of the new candidates who were
desirous of becoming such. They showed speed rather than strength
and were in some cases slender to a degree. It was not difficult
to distinguish the new candidates from the experienced, even when
they were in gymnasium attire; the matter of chest development alone
afforded unmistakable proof. In the same way the jumpers and pole
vaulters could be picked out. A greater development of the chest
muscles was noticeable, resultant on the short, sharp effort required
in their work. Of the several boys present who had been members of the
last year’s team as long-distance runners, three at least indicated
their specialty by their build. Their chests were quite as highly
developed as those of the jumpers, but the development was more
general; their tasks required staying power as well as strength of
lung. Of the performers with the heavy weights, Dave Merton was a fair
example. Both the twelve-pound hammer and the shot belong of right to
athletes who have weight in their favor, since it is only by putting
their weight into the effort that success with hammer or shot may be
hoped for. The exercise brings into play the muscles of the back and
loins, widens the body across the shoulders, and gives plenty of room
to the heart and lungs. To a less extent the legs are benefited and the
entire muscular system gains in elasticity.
Professor Beck emerged from the rowing room and cast his gaze over the
gymnasium floor, letting his eyes rest first on one and then another of
the exercisers at the weights.
“That will do at the weights, boys,” he announced presently. He
referred to a book which he took from his pocket. “Morris and Graham
and Gordon, to the running track and do a half mile; and by the way,
Graham, don’t labor under the impression that you’re trying to catch a
train; take your pace from Morris. You too, Gordon; you run too fast.
Jumpers and sprinters had better get in some work with the dumb-bells.
I’ll have a look at you presently. The rest of you know your work, I
think.”
He turned to Don, and the two discussed the candidates for some time,
while Wayne joined the men on the track and proceeded to put twelve
laps behind him at a moderate pace. Wayne’s presence among the track
team candidates requires some explanation. Continued study with but
little outdoor recreation had begun to create a listlessness that had
surprised and worried him. Don, when consulted, explained the matter in
very few words.
“You’ve been cooped up indoors and have had no exercise; what can you
expect? Staying indoors makes a chap’s brain sluggish. The sooner you
take up some exercise that’ll interest you, the sooner you’ll be able
to study well again.”
“But what is there to do?” asked Wayne.
“Why, report on Saturday and try for the track team. You half promised,
anyhow, you know.”
“More dumb-bells?” growled Wayne.
“At first, yes. But when we get outdoors you’ll be glad that you went
in for the team. You’ll like it after the first week, Wayne. Besides,
as a favor to me, you know!”
“Oh, well, I just as leave. I don’t mind those chest weights any more.
And I dare say it’ll give me something to do in spring. And I reckon it
_would_ make my lessons come easier.”
So the name of Wayne Gordon was entered in the list of candidates
for the track team, and he underwent an examination which appeared
satisfactory to Professor Beck and began training. He was already
enjoying the work. There was a definite object ahead to lend
encouragement at the most trying moments, and even the dumb-bells
were not so monotonous as formerly. Gymnasium work had already made
a perceptible change in the lad. He had got rid of not a little
superfluous flesh since the cross-country race, and his muscles were
firmer, his complexion was clearer, and he felt better. He even
acknowledged this, somewhat grudgingly, to Don.
“They’re pretty good things--chest weights and dumb-bells and single
sticks--after you get used to ’em,” he said.
To-day was his second appearance on the running track. He had
discovered the day before, greatly to his surprise, that he was not
expected to race around the building as fast as his legs would carry
him, but that a jog trot was what pleased Professor Beck best.
“I don’t want you to make any records up there, Gordon,” the professor
had informed him. “If you’re to make a success at long-distance
running you must get off some of that fat, breathe properly, and learn
endurance. Just put your head back, take long breaths, and jog around
at an even gait. Never mind style; we’ll take that up later.”
So Wayne jogged. He rather liked it to-day. There was something
soothing in the pat-pat of the runners’ shoes on the floor. His breath
came easily, and as he went around he could look down occasionally
upon the heads of the fellows below: at Dave who was going through the
most extraordinary antics with a leather-covered shot (Dave always had
recourse to the shot when he could not lay hold of a hammer); at Don
and Professor Beck, the former emphasizing his words by digging the
toe of his gymnasium shoe into the mattress in front of the vaulting
standard; at a string of fellows at the far side of the building and
under the track who were exercising with the wooden dumb-bells; at the
little group of idle boys at the doorway; and as he made the turns he
could glance through the high and broad windows and catch glimpses of
the frozen river and far-stretching snow-covered marshes.
Presently Professor Beck and Don parted company, the latter joining the
squad at dumb-bell exercise and the former fixing the standard for the
pole vaulters, two of whom were soon at work taking low flights. There
was something very attractive about the way in which the two white-clad
and lithe-bodied youngsters gripped the long poles and rose gracefully
into the air to drop noiselessly to the mattress beyond the crossbar,
and Wayne became so interested in the performance that he forgot to run
and had to be recalled to a recollection of his duty by Morris, who
gave him a playful kick as he jogged by.
But the half mile was soon finished, and Wayne left the track,
descended the stairs, and sought the director, who was busy instructing
Dave and two others in the matter of holding the shot. After a moment
he turned to Wayne.
“How do you feel, Gordon?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Think you could run another half-mile?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Good; but don’t try it. I guess you’ve done enough for to-day. Take
a tepid shower now and rub yourself down well with your hands before
drying. And, by the way, let me tell you what I mean by a shower. I
don’t mean that you must turn on the water and stand under it until
your teeth chatter; but get under it and get out again--slip through
it, as it were. Remember that as long as you’re in training, Gordon.
Too much bathing is worse than none for weakening you. I don’t mind
telling you that we are going to have need of just such a runner as I
hope you will turn out to be. You’ve got a little work ahead of you,
and there are certain regulations which may seem a trifle irksome at
first; but I hope you’ll persevere; you’ve got a good incentive to
train hard and conscientiously. And when you get tired or out of sorts,
why, take a rest. You can’t rest too much when you’re training; only
make sure that you are resting and not loafing. Both Cunningham and I
expect a good deal from you, Gordon; hope you won’t disappoint us.”
“I’ll try not to, sir, although I haven’t much faith in myself as an
athlete, you know.”
“That’ll come after you’ve done something; of course it’s all new to
you yet, and there’s a good bit to learn, but I’m sure you’ll make a
go of it. And you’ll like it better when you can get out of doors.
Meanwhile don’t overeat, get a good nine hours of sleep, and don’t let
yourself get tired. And if you want to ask any questions you’ll find me
here, you know.”
Wayne thanked him and disappeared in the direction of the bathroom.
Professor Beck looked after him thoughtfully.
“A good back for running, and endurance written all over him; and
obstinacy, too. It may be,” he mused, “that we can make use of that
obstinacy for a good purpose. But I hope he doesn’t shy at something or
get balky.”