BADLY BEATEN
Saturday dawned fresh and clear. A little breeze, redolent of forest
depths and growing things, blew over the meadows from Mount Adam. The
river sparkled beneath its touch and the broad carpet of yellowish
green marshland beyond felt its breath and stirred in response. The
school turned out to a man--or should I say to a boy?--and long before
the hour set for the meeting the stand and much of the turf without the
ropes that guarded the track in the vicinity of the finish lines were
well thronged. The village came too, in the persons of the postmaster
and the livery-stable keeper and the two rival grocers and many others
of local prominence; and their wives and daughters came with them and
lent an added dash of color to the scene.
The meeting was much like every other event of the kind. Contestants
ran, hurdled, or jumped; the judges looked inscrutable; and the
audience cheered indiscriminately. It was little to them whether this
boy was disappointed or that one made glad; they applauded a brilliant
finish or an extra inch surmounted with the pole, and cared but little
what the figures might be. There were no records broken that day, but
Professor Beck and Don and the coaches--of which there was a small army
on hand, many having arrived on the morning train--were on the whole
well satisfied with the results shown. Don took both hurdle events, and
Perkins came in a close second. Middleton failed to use his allowance
to good effect, and made a poor third in each race. Dave threw the
hammer one hundred and thirty-eight feet four inches, which, with his
handicap of eight feet, gave him second place in the event. Hardy threw
one hundred and forty-seven feet two inches, and Kendall was third with
one hundred and forty feet nine inches. Hardy’s performance assured
him a place on the team and indicated a possibility of victory at the
forthcoming meeting. The pole vault, the sprints, the jumps, and the
quarter mile were all well contested, and some of them showed even
brilliant work. Whitehead ran away from the field in the last twenty
yards of the half mile, and Wayne finished a poor sixth, partly owing
to the fact that he had made a bad start and partly because the pace
was too hot for him; Whitehead’s time was 2.07⅕.
After such a sorry showing as that it seemed that Fortune owed Wayne
some reparation in the mile event; if so, Fortune didn’t pay the debt.
Profiting by the experience gained in the half mile, Wayne got off well
with the pistol and took a place in the van of the group of eight
runners. At the quarter mile he was third and felt as fresh as a colt;
at the half he had pulled himself up to a place on the inside of the
track and but a yard behind the leader. At the three quarters he was
still running strong, but Whitehead had passed him and was disputing
the lead with Battles. At the beginning of the last lap, Wayne found
himself fourth. On the back stretch he passed Seers and drew up behind
Whitehead and Battles. His legs were strong, his breath good, and he
could have run another mile without minding it. But after the turn,
when he dashed ahead to win, he found to his dismay that there was no
dash in him. Battles and Whitehead tore away from him and Seers crawled
up, hung for an instant on his flank, and passed him. Battles won first
by a fraction of a second, Whitehead was next, Seers third, and Wayne
fourth. The winner’s time was 5.03⅘; Wayne’s, 5.19.
He crawled dejectedly to the dressing room and refused to be comforted
by Whitehead’s predictions of better success next time. He was out of
it, and he knew it. There was nothing to do save put as good a face
as possible upon defeat. He trotted away to the gymnasium before the
meeting was quite over and took his bath and rub down almost alone.
To-day these things failed to summon back his spirits, and he went to
his room, perched himself on his own particular window seat, gazed out
across the sunlit river and marshes, and thought it all over.
It seemed hard luck. A few months before he would have cared but
little whether he made the track team or not. But now it was different.
The virus of athletic ambition was in his veins, and the afternoon’s
defeat, entailing as it did loss of position on the track team, seemed
magnified into an overwhelming catastrophe. He tried to summon back
the old indifference; he remembered scoffing at Don because the latter
made so much of athletic triumphs; somehow it was different to-day,
and he wished that he had resisted Don’s appeals and stayed out of it
all. Then a sense of injury overwhelmed him. What right had Don and
Professor Beck to encourage him as they had into thinking that the long
hard training would win him a place on the team and then to drop him
like a--like a hot penny because he had failed once or twice to come up
to their standard? He was so certain all the time that he could have
won if--if--what? What had been the trouble? He knit his brows and
stared hard across the river. He had had no trouble as to wind; his
legs had remained strong and tireless to the end; he had simply been
unable to run as fast at the finish as the others. Very well, then,
it only remained to learn how to save his strength so that he could
spurt hard in the last fifty yards. Why couldn’t they give him another
chance? In the midst of his musings Don came in. He tossed a pair of
grips on to the table and joined Wayne at the window. There was an
atmosphere of constraint in the study, and for a moment neither boy
spoke. Then Don broke the silence.
“I’m awfully sorry, Wayne.”
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
There was another interval of silence. Then Don broke out with:
“But it does matter! I feel all broke up over it! It’s too bad, old
chap; that’s what it is. But perhaps it isn’t all up yet. I’m going to
try and get Beck to give you another try, Wayne. Don’t you think you
can do better?”
“Yes, I _know_ I can. I could have won easily to-day if--if-- The
trouble was I didn’t have any speed left at the finish; even Seers
passed me! Can’t I learn to save up for a spurt? I wasn’t tired; I
could have run another mile, I’m sure, Don.”
“Of course you can learn, if--if there is only time. You see, old chap,
there is only three weeks left. But I am going to see Beck, and I’ll
do all I can. I feel certain that you can beat that time to-day, and
better it, too. There has been a mistake somewhere; you haven’t been
worked right. And it’s Beck’s fault, I guess; at any rate, it isn’t
yours.”
“Oh, it’s nobody’s fault, I reckon; it’s just rotten luck!”
“No, luck doesn’t enter into it, Wayne. There’s been a mistake
somewhere; and I hope Beck will see it.” He paused and looked in a
troubled way at his chum. “Perhaps you think it is my fault, Wayne?” he
said wistfully. Wayne shook his head.
“No. I was rather blaming you and Beck a while ago, but I had no right
to. It isn’t your fault at all, Don, and don’t you worry about me;
you’ve got enough to attend to. I’ll be all right. Only if you don’t
mind speaking to Beck about it, you know----”
“Of course I will. Right away, too. All the fellows are asked to report
in Society House this evening at eight. Beck is going to announce the
names of the fellows who are to go to training table Monday, and some
of the grads are going to talk a bit. Remsen came to-day.”
“Who’s Remsen; the football man?”
“Yes, he used to coach the eleven. He’s a jolly nice fellow, and
awfully popular here. He’ll probably talk some, too. I hope he does;
he’s worth hearing. You’ll go, won’t you?”
“If I’m wanted; though, if I’m not going to be on the team, I don’t see
what use----”
“Of course you’re going on! So shut up and keep chipper. I promised
Beck to go to his room at five, and it’s nearly that time. Don’t get
blue, old chap; we’ll fix it all right!”
When the door had slammed to after Don the boy at the window sat a
long while looking out on to the darkening landscape. The river grew
to a deep violet with steel-gray ripples. The marsh became filled with
shadows, and the sun dropped behind the purple hills and left the
twilight cold and colorless. With a sigh and a shake of his broad
shoulders Wayne jumped up, pulled down the shades, and lighted the gas.
He seized the first book that came to hand, a Greek Testament, and
settled himself resolutely in the armchair.
“If Beck won’t give me another show,” he muttered as he found his
place, “I’ll go ahead and train on my own hook. And I’ll cut that old
mile down to five minutes even if I have to work all day. And then
they’ll _have_ to take me on!”