THE INTERSCHOLASTIC MEET
It had rained in the night, and the young grass was intensely green
in the great oval; the quarter mile of cinder track, fresh from the
rollers, was smooth, firm, and springy, and the newly turned mold
before the vaulting standard gave forth a pleasant odor beneath
the rakes. The lime marks and circles shone glaring white in the
afternoon sunlight and the bright colors of bonnet and dress and wrap
vied in brilliancy with the banners of the contesting schools--with
the deep blue of St. Eustace, the brown of Warrenton, the blue and
white of Northern Collegiate, the maroon of Maddurn Hall, the green
of Shrewsburg, the purple and white of Thracia Polytechnic, and the
crimson of Hillton.
The blue and white was most in evidence, for the Northern Collegiate
students were on home ground, while the others were visitors from
far and near. The collegiate band was discoursing brazen two steps,
the circling grand stands were buzzing with talk and laughter, the
officials were hurrying, scurrying, hither and thither, and from near
by, behind the unlovely high board fences, the electric cars droned
and clanged as they drew up to the entrance and discharged their loads.
And overhead arched a softly blue May sky just flecked with tiny wads
of cottonlike clouds. Northern Collegiate might have drawn a fair
augury from that sky.
The clerk of the course was busy placing the runners for the first
trial heat of the one-hundred-yard dash. Presently the long line was
crouching on the mark, the pistol sounded, and the interscholastic
meeting had begun. Other trial heats followed until the contestants for
the sprints and the hurdles were sifted down to a few for each event.
Meanwhile the broad jumpers were busy at the standard, and in the oval
a little group were preparing for the shot putting.
The mile run was down on the card as the last event, and Wayne, who was
entered for that only, looked on from the far side of the field, one of
a group of many, in front of the dressing room. Paddy, who had in some
way smuggled himself inside the ropes, sat beside him.
“We can’t see very much from here,” observed Paddy.
“Why don’t you go across, then?”
“I’m afraid that marshal will ask me embarrassing questions; he’s been
glaring at me suspiciously for the last ten minutes. They’re fixing the
low hurdles over there; hope Don will win. He looked worried a while
ago, I thought.”
“I reckon he’s all right,” answered Wayne. “He was put out about
Gaffney.”
“What’s the matter with Gaff?”
“Ankles lame or sore or something. Don was afraid he wouldn’t be able
to jump much. But I guess he’s doing well enough.”
“They’re on the mark; three of them! Don and Perkins, and a St. Eustace
chap.”
“Varian, I reckon. Don said he’d get second or third at least.”
“There they go!” The report of the pistol floated across the field to
where the boys were sitting. “Don’s taken the lead already! Go it, old
fellow!”
And Don, though he couldn’t possibly hear Paddy’s command, nevertheless
“went it” so well that at the sixth hurdle he was ten yards to the
good, with Perkins close behind him. The white forms flashed up and
down in the sunlight for a moment longer; then the race was over, and
Hillton had begun the day bravely by capturing a first and a second,
scoring eight points to St. Eustace’s one.
But Fortune’s face is ever turning, and in the next event, the
one-hundred-yard dash, St. Eustace took first place and Hillton failed
to score, the rest of the points going to Northern Collegiate’s speedy
sprinters. But in the four hundred and forty yards Hillton took both
first and second again, increasing her lead by eight more units and
leaving her dreaded rival far behind.
And so it went, Dame Fortune smiling and frowning alternately on the
wearers of the crimson, until the sun had begun to drop back of the
city roofs. Of the track events Hillton had now won three firsts, two
seconds, and one third; St. Eustace, two firsts and three thirds; and
the two schools had divided five points in the half-mile run, Whitehead
having finished side by side with Brown, of St. Eustace, after a spurt
down the cinders that brought the grand stand cheering to its feet.
Don had won the high hurdles in magnificent style from a Polytechnic
youth by a short yard, a St. Eustace hurdler securing third place.
Warrenton and St. Eustace had fought desperately for the tape in the
two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash, and the latter had gained a close
decision, Hillton taking third place. Hillton had done well in the
hurdles, fairly so in the middle distances, and poorly in the dashes;
St. Eustace had excelled in the dashes and had failed to win better
than third place in the hurdles.
The field events had sprung some surprises on the wearers of the
crimson. The pole vault had netted them nothing, the deep blue having
taken eight points and Northern Collegiate one.
Gaffney’s weak ankle had interfered to some extent with his performance
in the broad jump, and his best try, twenty-one feet eight inches and
a half, only secured three points for his school, St. Eustace scoring
first place. Again, in the high jump, the latter academy had excelled
and both first and second places had gone to her clever youngsters.
In the shot putting both St. Eustace and Hillton had failed signally,
although the latter had managed to capture third place, Northern
Collegiate, in the person of a big, broad-shouldered youth, easily
winning the event and breaking the only record of the meeting, with a
put of forty-seven feet six inches. And so, with the hammer throw still
to be decided, and the mile yet to be run, the scores stood:
St. Eustace, 36½;
Hillton, 29½;
Northern Collegiate, 11;
Scattering, 14.
But the hopes of the Hillton supporters were bright, for St. Eustace
had already dropped out of the hammer throw, and only Trowbridge, of
Northern Collegiate, and Dave and Hardy had qualified for the finals;
Trowbridge with a throw of one hundred and forty-three feet, Dave with
one of one hundred and forty-two feet eight inches, and Hardy with one
of one hundred and forty feet four inches. And now Trowbridge had the
ball and wire for his final tries.
Victory seemed already his, and his freckled face held an expression of
radiant confidence. The previous competitors, together with the judges
and the scorer and a few privileged college men, watched with interest
as he swung the weight around with long arms and sent it flying across
the turf. Then the tape was moved over, and in a moment the distance
was announced:
“Hundred and forty-six feet three inches.”
Trowbridge shrugged his shoulders as he took the hammer for the next
attempt and put more speed into the swing. But he used his feet poorly
and the figures dropped back to three inches under one hundred and
forty-five feet. A shade of uneasiness darkened the confident face, and
Trowbridge set his lips tightly as he raised the weight. Then the long
arms whirled, the body spun around, and the hammer whizzed through the
air. The tape was laid to the ground.
“Hundred and forty-seven feet nine inches,” said a judge.
Trowbridge stepped from the ring with a scowl, and Dave took his place.
As the Hillton lad gripped his hammer his eyes fell on Paddy, who had
joined the little throng, his desire to witness Dave’s work having
overcome his fear of the marshal. Paddy grinned encouragement, and
Dave, with a lurking smile on his serious countenance, responded with a
portentous wink. Then the hammer went up, swung around in its widening
circle, and flew away.
“Hundred and forty-three feet three inches.”
Once more, and again the tape and the careful measurement.
“Hundred and forty-eight feet five inches.”
A ripple of surprise and applause went through the audience. Trowbridge
looked sad. Paddy executed a quiet dance at the edge of the throng.
Back came the hammer. Dave gripped it with an air of determination,
and placed his feet with greater care than before. Up went the weight,
around spun the boy like a dervish, once, twice, thrice; there was a
sudden quick stiffening of the muscles, a set to the shoulders, and the
twelve pounds of iron sped away at a tangent and ripped the sod at a
point farther from the circle than any preceding throw.
“One hundred and forty-nine feet one inch,” announced the judges. Dave
had won first place for Hillton.
He stepped out, dragging his beloved hammer after him, with a face that
strove hard to hide his happiness. Hardy clapped him on the back as he
passed to join Paddy, and the latter beamed upon him like the Cheshire
cat. Hardy went in, glad of Dave’s victory over Trowbridge, but hoping
for a victory, in turn, over Dave. But that was not to be. His first
throw was a sorry attempt; his second scarcely better. But at the third
try he put his whole soul into the task and his whole weight behind the
flying ball, and when the judges stepped back they announced:
“One hundred and forty-eight feet eleven inches.”
“Eight points to Hillton!” cried some one, and several boys clapped
loudly. Then the group broke up, Dave, Hardy, and Paddy mingling with
the crowd that flowed across toward the dressing room, joy in their
hearts.
“Ready for the mile!” called a voice, and in answer a squad of boys
trotted across the field toward the starting point. Wayne and Whitehead
were in the van and Paddy waved to them as they passed.
“Go in and win, Old Virginia!” And Wayne nodded smilingly, and hoped
that his face wasn’t quite as white as it felt. Professor Beck, Don,
and two Hillton coaches were waiting, and Don helped him off with his
coat, and trotted along beside him while he limbered up.
“Wayne, this is what you’ve got to do,” he whispered. “Get to the front
as soon as you can and look for Sturgis. If he’s ahead, stay with him
no matter what pace he sets. If he’s behind, wait for him. Pay no
attention to any others. It doesn’t matter who wins as long as St.
Eustace doesn’t get a place. Sturgis is their only man that we need
fear; so freeze to him, and don’t let him get away from you. Look out
for tricks, though, for St. Eustace is going to try them, I’m sure. If
she can get first or second men in she’ll have us beaten; if she can
win third place she’ll tie us. Win if you can, but, whatever happens,
_down Sturgis_!”
“Hurry up, milers!” called the clerk of the course. Don gave Wayne an
affectionate clap on the shoulder.
“Go in, old man,” he whispered, “and remember Hillton every minute!”
There were twelve entries for the mile. St. Eustace, beside her crack
long-distance runner Sturgis, had entered House and Gould, both men
to be feared. Hillton was represented by Wayne and Whitehead, both
new men and inexperienced; Hillton’s chances were not considered very
good by the other schools. Northern Collegiate and Shrewsburg had each
entered two runners, and the other schools were represented by one man
apiece. Northern Collegiate was doing a deal of talking about a youth
named Pope, of whom little was known to the other schools, and who was
spoken of as a “dark horse” that stood a fair chance of winning. Wayne
found himself placed between Pope, who turned out to be a heavily-built
fellow of apparently nineteen, and a pale and nervous boy much younger
in years, whose brown ribbon bore in gold letters the emblem “W. A.
A. A.” Gould had the place next to the inner edge of the track, and
Sturgis and Whitehead were together near the outer edge.
The spectators had begun to leave the grounds and the stands already
presented little barren patches. The shadow of the small building
wherein was the dressing room stretched far across the oval, and the
sun was fast sinking behind the forest of roofs and chimneys in the
west. Contestants in previous events were dressed and stood about the
turf to watch the last and deciding struggle for the championship of
the year.
Pope was restively digging his toes into the path while the penalties
for false starting were being explained with much vehemence by the
starter. The Warrenton runner on Wayne’s left was working his arms
back and forth as though he was going to win the race on his hands
and feared his elbows would get stiff. Wayne himself was undeniably
nervous. It was his first appearance in a public contest, barring the
cross-country run at Hillton the preceding autumn, and the thought of
what failure would mean was beginning to take the starch out of him.
But nervousness was the one thing that had been prohibited above all
others; and so he tried to forget about the possibilities of failure
and had begun to wonder, without much interest in the problem, how
many men it required to keep the grass cut on the big oval when the
starter’s voice brought his thoughts back at a leap.
“_On your mark!_”
Pope growled something to him about dull spikes and loose tracks, but
Wayne made no answer. He was looking straight ahead down the broad
path, his thoughts in a tumult.
“_Set!_”
Twelve bodies leaned farther forward and there was a perceptible sound
of intaking breath up and down the line. Then, when it seemed to many
that another moment of suspense would make them shout or dance or do
something else equally ridiculous, _bang!_ went the pistol, and the
line leaped forward and broke into fragments as the runners sped away.