THE RELAY RACE
That evening was destined to be one of triumph for Stewart Earle
and the lower middle class. In the relay race that followed the
two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash the juniors had never a chance from
first to last, and lower middle’s fourth man cantered home almost in
time to tag the junior’s last runner ere he left the mark. Stewart
and Trevor viewed the contest squatting on the floor beside the seats
occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Earle and Carl Gray.
Stewart’s mother had welcomed victor and vanquished with impartial
favor, although her pride and pleasure in her boy’s success was
patent to all. Stewart’s father smiled near-sightedly at Trevor, and
assured him that he had made a remarkable race, but his words didn’t
disguise for a moment the fact that he had expected Stewart to win,
and that he was somewhat surprised at Trevor’s thinking for a moment
that he (Trevor) stood any chance of victory. Even Stewart appeared
uncomfortable at his father’s tone, and strove to change the subject
lest Trevor should feel hurt. But the latter was genuinely glad that
Stewart’s parents had witnessed a victory for their son and had never
a thought of disappointment or envy. As to the reason for his sudden
and unexpected giving-out, however, Trevor had little to say, and when
Carl suggested that perhaps he had insufficient training since the
recess he eagerly acknowledged that that might have had something to do
with it.
“But I never had a hope of winning,” Stewart had cried, “after the
second round! I just kept on going because--well, you know--just to
make as good a showing as I could. When you fell behind I was so
surprised that I almost stopped.”
The sixty-yard hurdle-race proved of exciting interest to Mr. and Mrs.
Earle, and every one else, for that matter, and was won in the closest
kind of a finish by a senior class fellow in the remarkably good time
of eight seconds. The one-mile run followed, but failed to awaken
much enthusiasm from the audience, who were impatient for the final
event, the senior-upper middle relay race. When the mile run was half
over Trevor shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Earle, and, encouraged by
their hearty wishes for his success, hurried off to the dressing-room.
Kernan, captain of the upper middle team, took him aside and questioned
him anxiously.
“I’m afraid you’re not very fit, Nesbitt. I was going to run you last,
but I guess I’ll let Chalmers have the final and put you second. How do
you feel?”
“Spiffin!” answered Trevor heartily, “never felt better. Don’t get it
into your noddle that I’m done up, old chap, and don’t change the
order on account of that two-twenty dash. That was judgment more than
anything else----”
“Judgment!” ejaculated Kernan. “I didn’t see much judgment in it!”
“That’s your stupidity, Kernan. Can’t stop to explain now; but just you
go ahead and let me run last, like a good fellow, and I promise you you
won’t regret it.” Kernan frowned hesitatingly; then his face cleared
and he slapped Trevor on the back.
“All right, Nesbitt; run last you shall. I don’t pretend to understand
that two-twenty, but I’ll trust you to do your work. We’ve got a stiff
race, I guess, but we’re not beaten yet. The seniors will put Taylor
last, I expect; he’s a good man, all right, but if we can hold onto
them until the last round I think you can down him. What do you say?”
“I say you give me a fairly even start with Roy Taylor, and I’ll beat
him out!” answered Trevor doggedly.
“That’s the stuff! Of course, I can’t promise the even start, but I’ll
do my best, Nesbitt; and you’ll do yours, I know, and----”
“Ready for the relay! All out, fellows!”
Trevor, Kernan, and the other two members of their team, Chalmers
and Johnston, hurried to the starting-line, followed by four very
proper-looking boys wearing the senior colors. The band, hidden from
sight by a fringe of shouting juniors at the end of the gallery, played
for all it was worth. The seniors and upper middle fellows were
cheering the members of their teams individually and collectively, and
the uproar was tremendous.
Professor Beck, athletic director, and at present that court of last
appeal, the referee, gave the instructions in quick, clear tones as
the first two contestants stood on their marks. The professor was a
short man who wore glasses, who always dressed faultlessly, whether
for a principal’s reception or an afternoon on the campus, whose
slightest turn of the head or crook of the finger bespoke authority,
and whose voice, ordinarily low but incisive, could swell into a very
fair imitation of a speaking-trumpet on short notice. For the rest,
he understood boy nature from A to Z, and beyond, and could turn a
good track athlete out of anything except a wooden post, given the
opportunity. Hillton fellows, when graduated from the narrow prejudices
of the junior year, worshiped two local deities--Professor Wheeler,
the principal, and Professor Beck; and there was a well-defined notion
prevalent that should some beneficent Fate remove from the academy all
the rest of the faculty things would not only continue undisturbed, but
would run better than ever.
I have dealt at some length on Professor Beck because he is a person of
much importance. When he dies--may the day be far!--his portrait will
hang beside those of the founder and past principals in the chapel, to
be outwardly guyed and inwardly reverenced by succeeding generations of
loyal Hilltonians.
“Now, get them off quickly,” commanded the professor. The starter cried
his perfunctory “On your marks! Get set!” and then the little pistol
barked with all the ferocity of a toy spaniel, and the great event of
the meeting, the senior-upper middle one-mile relay race, was on.
Johnston, for the upper middle, and a youth named Cummings, for the
seniors, shot off together, and began their quarter mile as though they
had but one lap to accomplish instead of six. The pace was too good to
last, and every one knew it, including the runners, and so, when they
had made the first round of the track, they slowed down as though by
mutual consent, and went at the contest in businesslike style. Seniors
and upper middle classmen cheered their respective candidates, and
hurled taunts across the hall.
“The U. M. is a stupid pup
Who laps his milk from out a cup;
He may have sense when he grows up
And gets to be a Senior!”
To this chanted aspersion the upper middle fellows replied with
howls of derision, and started upon their own poetic catalogue of
the deficiencies of the rival class, the first verse of which ran as
follows:
“Said the Prof. unto the Senior:
‘You must alter your demeanor,
For such ways I’ve never seen; you’re
Quite as awkward as a hen;
Your walk is most unsightly, sir;
Pray place your feet more lightly, sir,
And always bow politely, sir,
To the Upper Middle men!’”
There were five more verses to it, and while it lasted the seniors, led
by Dick and Todd, could only cheer incessantly and stamp their feet in
a hopeless endeavor to drown the song.
Meanwhile the first quarter of the race was nearly over, and Johnston
and Cummings, the former leading by a scant ten yards, were spurting
along the back-stretch. Then the senior runner reached the line,
touched hands with the next man, and dropped from the track tired and
breathless just as Cummings came up and Chalmers took his place in the
race.
As Johnston crossed the line Dick slipped his watch back into his
pocket. “Fifty-seven and four fifths seconds!” he bawled into
Williams’s ear. “Johnston ought to have done better by three fifths.”
Williams nodded. “We’ve got the start of them, however,” he answered.
On the second lap Clark, the senior runner, increased the lead to a
good fifteen yards, and from there on to the finish, Chalmers, try as
he might and did, could not close the gap, and the second quarter was
finished in the good time of fifty-seven and one fifth seconds. Kernan,
the upper middle team captain, entered the race with set, determined
face, and ere the first lap of the third quarter had been reeled off
had raised the flagging hopes of his classmates by a wonderful burst
of speed that put him on equal terms with the senior runner, Morris.
At the third corner he secured the inside of the track, and kept it
during the whole of the second, third, and fourth laps, although Morris
tried hard to reach him.
The shouting from the upper middle seats was wild and continuous, and
the swirling banners waved riotously over Kernan as, with head back and
bare legs twinkling, he sped along, every instant now lengthening the
space between him and the pursuer. And then suddenly the cheers and
shouts of acclaim were changed to cries of alarm and dismay. There was
the sound of a fall, and a white-clad form plunged to the floor and
rolled over and over. Kernan at the third corner had tripped on the
incline.
Morris, racing along but a few yards behind, leaped over the rolling
body, stumbled, recovered himself after a few strides, and went on.
Half a dozen fellows hurried toward Kernan, but he was on his feet
again before they could reach him, and, although he was plainly bruised
and sore from his fall, took up the running pluckily, amid cheers. But
his task was a hopeless one. Morris had used the misadventure to good
purpose, and now between him and the upper middle captain a third of a
lap stretched. Kernan, with white face, tried desperately to make up
the lost ground, and even succeeded in doing so to some extent, but
Morris’s lead was too great, and that youth swept breathlessly over
the line, nearly a quarter of a lap to the good, and, touching the
impatient, outstretched fingers of Roy Taylor, sank exhausted to the
floor.
Trevor, poised for a quick start, heard Taylor’s feet resounding
over the first incline as Kernan, staggering by, touched his hand
for a fleeting instant and toppled over. With a dash Trevor took up
the running. A quarter of a lap was more than he had bargained for
when he had professed his ability to beat Roy Taylor, but he was not
discouraged. He knew Taylor well; knew that that youth was a fast and
steady runner at quarter- and half-mile distances, but knew also that,
while a spurt at the finish was quite within Taylor’s powers, a series
of fast dashes had the effect of worrying and exciting him. Trevor
laid his plans accordingly. He realized intuitively that he was in
better condition than his rival for hard and fast work; he had run in
the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard event, while Taylor had not been on
the track before that evening; a fact which, in Trevor’s present good
physical shape, worked to his advantage; his former race, despite his
defeat, had served to put him into excellent condition for this one. He
ran easily, maintaining the distance between Taylor and himself, and at
the commencement of the second of the six laps constituting the last
quarter of the race he was still a quarter of a lap behind.
“That’s good work, Nesbitt,” cried Kernan, who, sprawled out on a
mattress, was at last beginning to find his breath once more. The
band was almost vainly striving to make its brazen notes heard above
the shouting of the students, while pennants of class colors writhed
serpent-like in the air, and seniors and upper middle classmen hurled
defiant cheers at each other across the intervening space. The lower
middle boys and the juniors cheered indiscriminately, although there
was a tendency among the latter class to uphold the seniors. Dick,
Williams, Todd, and their companions leaned over the railing and
watched the contest excitedly. Trevor and Taylor had begun the second
lap, the former with eyes intent upon the youth ahead, the latter
running with a great show of style, and with an easy and confident
smile upon his face.
“Taylor runs just as he does everything,” grumbled Todd, “with one eye
on the gallery.”
“He does like to show off,” assented Williams. “Hello!”
A roar went up from floor and balcony, and Roy Taylor, just mounting
the second incline, turned his head to see Trevor coming up on him like
a whirlwind. Instantly he leaped away, and the seniors, for a moment
dismayed, gave voice to their relief and approval. Trevor settled down
into his former pace, well satisfied, for by that unexpected spurt he
had taken off nearly a half of the distance that had separated him
from his opponent. Taylor, as soon as he saw the danger over, settled
back into his former even but not extraordinary pace, and finished the
second lap running well within himself. The third lap began with more
encouraging prospects for the upper middle class.