DON LOSES HIS TEMPER
“Connor, you and Middleton will try the full flight together. Get on
your mark, and I’ll start you in a minute. Perkins, you took the full
distance yesterday, didn’t you? Well, report to Mr. Beck, please, for
starting; and you’d better go a hundred and twenty on the flat at about
a sixteen-second clip. Hello, Wayne, aren’t you working to-day?”
Wayne suited his step to Don’s and trotted up the track with him to
where Connor and Middleton were waiting at the far end of the long line
of hurdles.
“I guess so; after a while. Beck’s busy with the broad jumpers. Are you
going over the hurdles?”
“If I get a chance. Hang it, I haven’t had any time to practice this
week. Connor and Middleton have taken up every minute, and they’re
awful duffers at hurdling. Perkins is a good man, though; he just
passed you a minute ago. Wait until I get these fellows off and I’ll
talk to you.”
Don went to the starting line and Wayne, drawing his coat more closely
about his running costume, perched himself on an unused hurdle at the
side of the track and looked on. Don took a small revolver from his
pocket and stationed himself behind the two hurdlers.
“Both you fellows must try and get over the hurdles lower. Remember
that it doesn’t matter if you strike them; it won’t hurt you. Connor,
you start well and make your first hurdle all right, but after that you
get ragged. Keep your pace up to the end; you ought to finish just as
fast as you begin. Middleton, you haven’t got your pace right yet. Your
first two steps are always too short, and the result is that your third
leaves you too far from the hurdle. You must correct that. I’ll give
you both two tries over the full flight. This time take it easy and be
careful. On your mark! Set!”
_Bang!_ went the little pistol and the two hurdlers dashed forward
toward the first of the three-feet-six-inch obstacles. Don ran
alongside on the cinders, watching their performance and shouting
instructions.
“Higher next time, Connor, by a half inch.” “Lengthen your stride,
Middleton.” “Take your time, both of you.” “That’s better, Connor; good
work. Don’t stop; keep on to the finish!”
The three hurdlers came slowly back, listening in patient and
respectful attention to Don’s criticisms, and again dug their spikes
into the cinders at the mark, crouching low and practicing little
starts. Don called to Wayne.
“I’m going over them once, Wayne, to show these chaps what I’ve been
talking about. Will you start me?”
Wayne hurried up and took the pistol.
“You fellows,” continued Don, turning to the two tyros, “had better run
along and watch me over the hurdles. You’ll see what I mean by jumping
low, and you, Middleton, had better watch my stride. All ready, Wayne.”
The latter cocked the pistol. “On your mark! Set!”
At the report of the pistol Don straightened himself quickly from
his crouching position and tore lightly down on the first of the ten
hurdles, springing off the right foot, turning his body slightly to
the right and clearing the bar with a long, low, graceful rise that
was scarcely more than a stride. Three long steps and he was again in
the air, his rear ankle just tipping the wood as he landed on the ball
of his right foot and sped on, apparently without effort. Again and
again his white-clad form rose and fell down the line of hurdles until
the last one was surmounted and he had crossed the finish running like
a deer, swiftly and lightly. Then with a series of high, shortening
strides he gradually slowed down and turned back.
“Isn’t it pretty, the way he does that?” said a voice in Wayne’s ear,
and the latter turned to find Paddy beside him.
“You bet it is!” answered Wayne warmly. “I wish I could do it!”
“Ever try?”
“No; did you?”
“Once; last year. Don had five hurdles set up out here, and I told him
I’d beat him over if he’d give me a start. So I tried. He waited until
I was over the first hurdle. Then he started.” Paddy paused and grinned
reminiscently.
“Who won?”
“There wasn’t any race, me boy. The spalpeen went across the finish
while I was trying to pick myself out of the third hurdle. You see, I
got over the first all right, but when I reached the second there was
something wrong; I had too many feet or--or something; and I got there
on the wrong one. I finally jumped off one of them--I think it was the
left hind foot--knocked the hurdle over, ran for the next one, landed
on top of it, and then--well, then the hurdle and I were all mixed up
together. I think it struck me, but I’m not sure. Oh, hurdle racing is
something that I wasn’t cut out for. I’m quite willing that Don should
do my share.”
Don and the other two lads came up while Wayne was still laughing over
Paddy’s narrative, and, yielding the pistol, Wayne stood aside and
watched the next trial. Don got into his overcoat again and Connor and
Middleton crouched at the mark.
“Now, see what you can do,” said Don. “I’ll tell you frankly that
neither of you can make the team on such work as you’ve done up to
date. So, for goodness’ sake, put brains into your hurdling. I’ll time
you this try, and the fellow that finishes second will have to work
hard next week if he wants to go to the interscholastic meeting.”
Once more the pistol sounded, the two boys left the mark as though shot
from a cannon, and together took the first two bars. Then Middleton
began to drop behind, and at the last hurdle was a long two yards to
the rear of Connor, who finished well and strongly.
“Nineteen and a fifth,” called Don. “Slow work that. But you both
showed improvement. Your stride’s all wrong yet, though, Middleton; two
short at first; nothing even; you’ll get beaten every time until you
mend it. I won’t try you over the full flight again until you’ve had a
full week’s work learning the stride. Monday you’d better go back to
the low hurdles again and try taking about three of them. That’s all
to-day.”
Middleton and Connor, the former looking very meek, seized their wraps
and trotted away toward the dressing room. Don joined Wayne and Paddy
on the top of the hurdle and the three swung their legs and chatted
until Professor Beck approached and summoned Wayne to the starting line
of the mile.
It was Saturday afternoon, a week from the date of the handicap
meeting, and the track candidates were out in full force. Groups of
white-clad boys dotted the field. The broad jumpers and the pole
vaulters were busy near by; several sprinters were trotting toward the
grand stand after their trials; the hammer and shot candidates were
hard at work; a number of fellows were jogging about the track; on the
gridiron the spring football squad was learning the rudiments of the
game, and the sound of the bat broke sharply on the air now and then
where the baseball candidates were at practice. On the links a number
of figures moved hither and thither at the will of the speeding white
spheres. The scene was a bright and busy one, and overhead the blue
April sky arched cloudless from hill to mountain.
“Gordon, get your coat off and limber up,” commanded Professor Beck. “I
want you to run your distance to-day on time.”
Wayne threw aside his coat, looked to his running shoes, and trotted
down the cinders to the one-hundred-yard post and back again,
stretching his muscles and relishing the faint gritting sound that
his shoes made on the smooth, level path. Then he got on his mark and
listened to the professor’s directions.
“I’ll tell you your time after each quarter,” he announced. “I want you
to study it and your pace so that you will be able in a race to judge
accurately how fast you are going. Get away quickly and get a good
steady pace by the end of the first sixty yards. Remember you’ve got
a quarter of a mile farther to run than you’re used to. And remember,
too, that on the last half lap you must increase your speed. Keep that
in mind and save enough strength for a good hard spurt at the finish.
Sutton will pace you on the last quarter. On your mark!”
Wayne sped away from a good start, and, according to directions, found
a steady pace ere the end of the first half minute, and ran in good
form. At the end of the first quarter Professor Beck announced the time
and bade him to slow up a little. The half mile was accomplished well
under 2.28. When he reached the line at the end of the third quarter
Sutton was waiting and started off beside him at a pace that made
Wayne’s eyes open. But he did not try to overhaul the fleet-footed
four-hundred-and-forty-yard runner at once, but ran well within himself
and saved his strength for the last half lap. He began to feel the pace
now, and his feet showed a tendency to drag. As he passed the line on
the next to the last lap some twenty yards behind the middle-distance
man Professor Beck was waiting watch in hand.
“All right,” he called. “Don’t hurry until you turn for the finish.”
Around the track for the last time the two runners went. Sutton
increased his pace and his lead about halfway down the back stretch.
Overcoming the impulse to try and run him down then, Wayne kept up his
steady, moderate pace until the turn toward the finish. Then he called
on his reserve strength and spurted forward, making a fine race to the
tape and finishing well up behind the speedy Sutton. As he trotted
back to the line Professor Beck met him.
“Your time was five minutes and twenty seconds, Gordon. Try and
remember your speed, so that next time you will be able to regulate
your pace by to-day’s performance. You kept your arms up as usual and
your second quarter was a bit too fast. Next time try and run it about
five seconds slower, and put that five seconds into the finish. I
expect you to cut that time down by at least fifteen seconds before the
meet. That’s all this afternoon. Work yourself easy the first of next
week; I think I’d leave out the cross-country run Monday and do about
two miles slow on the track. I’ll give you another trial on Thursday.”
Wayne trotted away to the gymnasium, had a refreshing shower and rub
down, and had done a full hour’s work at his studies when Don came in
at dusk. The latter was not satisfied with his chum’s performance.
“You’ll have to beat that, Wayne. Sturgis, of St. Eustace, ran the mile
last year easily in 5.02⅕,” he said. “And Warrenton has men that can
do nearly as well. But it’s early yet. I do wish you’d get out of the
habit of hugging yourself. I watched you this afternoon. You had your
hands over your lungs during the whole last half of the mile.”
“Hang it,” Wayne responded, “you and Beck are awful cranks! I tell you
that I can run better that way. I’ve tried letting my arms swing, and
it won’t work.”
“No one wants you to swing your arms,” answered Don. “Just let them
alone and they’ll look after themselves. Only, for goodness’ sake stop
putting them on your chest and loading your lungs down!”
“I don’t load my lungs down,” answered Wayne a trifle shortly. “My
lungs are all right. I had plenty of breath when I finished to-day to
run another mile.”
“All right; but you wait and see, my boy. Folks that have been at
the business longer than you know more about it, I guess; and you’ll
discover some fine day that you’ve just thrown away your chances of
doing something by sticking to a habit that you could easily break
yourself of now if you’d try.”
“I have tried; I can’t run any other way.”
“You haven’t tried hard enough. It’s nonsense to say that you _can’t_
keep your arms off your chest; you just _won’t_!”
Wayne retired behind his Cæsar in silent dignity, and Don, his temper
worn by the day’s labor with the hurdlers and jumpers, isolated himself
in his window seat and scowled over his history of Greece until hunger
drove both to supper, by which time the small quarrel was forgotten
and the two raced downstairs and across to Turner Hall in the best of
spirits.