THE MORNING OF THE GAME
They spun back to Wissining in something close to ten minutes,
stopping, with a triumphant toot of the horn, in front of Clarke at
twenty minutes to ten. Half a dozen fellows who had seen the arrival of
the automobile rushed up to shake Dan’s hand and inquire anxiously if
he were going to play.
“Yes,” replied Dan, “and we’re going to win.”
Then he made his escape to his room, while Gerald and the others sped
around to the gymnasium in the car. At a few minutes after the hour
Gerald took the wheel again and, with ten boys packed into or onto it,
swung the automobile’s nose toward Broadwood. They didn’t go that far,
however, as the start of the cross-country race was at the Old Cider
Mill, a mile beyond the bridge. Here the road was already lined with
spectators, while numerous bare-legged youths, wrapped in many-hued
bath-gowns, awaited the signal. Gerald steered the car into the bushes
at one side of the road and left it in charge of Ned. He and Kendall
made themselves comfortable in the rear seat, where they were presently
joined by Arthur Thompson. Arthur had discarded his crutch several days
before, but was glad of a place where he might watch events and favor
his knee.
“Gerald says that Dan’s back,” said Arthur as he climbed into the front
seat. “Have you seen him, Tooker?”
“Yes, I’ve seen him. In fact, Thompson, we spent last night and the
night before with him at Lloyd. He was at the hotel over there. He was
sort of done up when Payson sent him off, but he’s as fit as a fiddle
now. How’s your knee, by the way?”
“All right, thanks. It gets sort of tired, though, if I use it much. So
Dan’s really going to play? The paper said――”
“Yes, we saw that. He’s going to play all right, Thompson. By the way,
do you know Burtis?”
“We used to see each other on the field a while back,” responded
Arthur, shaking hands. “There, they’re going to start. I hope Gerald
gets first place to-day. If he does they can’t very well help making
him captain for next year; they probably will anyway. They’re off!”
The sharp report of the pistol rent the air, two lines of runners
sprang away and the crowd closed in behind them.
“What I object to,” said Ned, when the spectators had begun to stream
off up the road toward the finish, a mile distant, “is that I’ve got to
leave this comfortable seat and hit the dusty highway if I want to see
the finish.”
“You wouldn’t mind it a bit,” Kendall laughed, “if you had a golf ball
in front of you.”
“I expected to stay here,” said Arthur. “You can get a pretty good idea
of things at this point, you know, but if I thought Gerald wouldn’t
mind my running the car I’d go on up to the finish.”
“Can you run it?” asked Ned eagerly.
“Yes, I can run it all right, but he might not like it.”
“Not like it! He’d be tickled to death, Thompson. He said coming down
that he wished I could take the car to the finish and get him there. He
was going to telephone home and have the chauffeur come and do it, but
he didn’t have time. If you can run her, Thompson, do your worst.”
“All right. Can you crank her for me? My knee’s still sort of wobbly.”
“I’m the original cranker,” responded Ned, leaping out. “All right? Let
her go!”
_Chug, chug, chug, chug, chug_, said the big car. And a minute later it
was running softly along the road, Arthur at the wheel. It required
some manipulation to get the car berthed near the finish line, for
Broadwood and Yardley were there in force and resented yielding a foot
of ground. Ned finally solved the problem by taking down the bars of a
fence and Arthur “parked” the car in somebody’s meadow.
There was still some time to wait, for the four-mile course was a
fairly difficult one, one part of it, about three-quarters of a mile
long, being over the fields. While they waited Arthur, in response to a
question from Kendall, explained the conditions of the contest. There
were, he said, ten runners on each team, of which the first eight to
finish counted in the result. The first man over the line counted one
point for his team, the second man two points, the third man three
points, and so on, the team scoring the lowest total winning the race.
“There isn’t much doubt but that we’ll win,” he said. “The main
interest in the race lies in the struggle for first honors. Crossett
of Broadwood, Gerald and Sherwood of our team, are out for those. I
think Gerald ought to beat Crossett, but whether he can get away from
Sherwood is another matter. Goodyear may show up better than he’s been
doing, too. He got first place last year. Hiltz may get into the front,
too.”
“That roommate of yours is running, isn’t he?” asked Ned.
“Harry? Yes, he’s in it, but I guess he isn’t very fast yet. I ran
myself last year, but I didn’t finish; had a cramp. This year I
went in for football instead. Guess I’d better have stayed with the
Cross-Country Team; a cramp is better than a sprained knee.”
“If Pennimore doesn’t get the captaincy, who will?” asked Kendall.
“Holder, probably. He and Gerald are about the only Second Class
fellows who have had any experience. Someone’s coming now, I guess.
Climb up, Tooker, and take a squint.”
“Two of them,” announced Ned, “about a quarter of a mile up the road.”
Kendall sprang onto the seat beside him, and eventually Arthur too,
forgetting his knee, got to his feet. Far up the road two figures in
white shirts and trunks were trotting doggedly toward the finish.
They appeared to be quite close together, but who they were was still
uncertain. Finally the sunlight gleamed on a blue ribbon across the
breast of the leader and the Yardley contingent sent up a shout of
delight. Nearer and nearer they came, while three other runners
appeared in sight in the distance. Finally,
“That’s Gerald!” exclaimed Arthur with relief. “And that’s Goodyear
just behind him. First two for us! _Whoopee!_”
It was a gallant race to the line, but the younger boy had enough left
in him to spurt just before the finish and win from his captain by a
good ten or twelve yards. The two runners were surrounded by their
shouting friends, and in a minute Gerald, weary but happy, was climbing
into the car.
Crossett, of Broadwood, won third place from Hiltz and Sherwood, of
Yardley, and then no more runners finished for several minutes. Finally
two tired Broadwood youths trailed in, and Holder and Merrow fought for
eighth place. Holder won, but young Merrow had run a plucky race and
received such a hearty salvo of applause that he got embarrassed and
quickly dodged into the crowd. A few minutes later Yardley’s eighth
man had finished and the score was known. It was a decisive victory
for the Blue, 51 to 85, and Yardley set off for home, passing the
last stragglers on the way, two Yardley and six Broadwood fellows.
Gerald and Arthur sat on the front seat of the car going back, with
Ned, Kendall, Harry Merrow and Goodyear behind. On the way up the hill
Arthur leaned over and whispered in Gerald’s ear:
“How does it sound, Gerald?”
“What?” asked the other.
“Why, ‘Captain Pennimore’!”
“Shut up,” growled Gerald sheepishly. “Besides, maybe I won’t get it,”
he added.
“Don’t you worry; you will!”
And a week afterwards he did.
As the car rolled past Oxford on the way around to the gymnasium Ned
asked:
“What are you rubbering at, Curt?”
“I was looking at that man on the steps,” responded Kendall. “Did you
notice him, Ned? Do you know who he is?”
“That was Payson, you chump!”
“No, I mean the man with him. He looked like someone I――used――to know.”
“I didn’t notice him,” replied Ned. “Some Old Grad back for the game, I
suppose.”
“All out!” shouted Gerald. “Far as the car goes!”
_Honk! Honk! Honk!_ said the horn.