THE MEDICAL EXAMINER TALKS TRAINING
"Do you want a suggestion, Prescott?" inquired Dr. Bentley.
The physician and his party had been over at the high school boys'
camp for something like twenty minutes, that same afternoon, watching
the training work that the young athletes were undergoing.
"Yes, sir," Dick answered promptly. Then a sudden thought striking
him, he added:
"Perhaps I can make a suggestion, doctor, that is even more immediate
in its nature than yours."
"Then I shall be glad to have it," smiled Laura's father.
"Did you leave that chauffeur to watch your camp?"
"No; he has gone to Five Corners to post the young women's numerous
letters. But the camp doesn't need a guard, does it?"
"It does, as long as Tag Mosher is at large, sir. Harry, won't
you go over to the doctor's camp and stay there until the chauffeur
returns?"
"Yes," agreed Hazelton.
"If you sight Tag, or any other doubtful-looking characters, just
give a yell, and we'll all come over."
"Would that young scamp bother our camp, really?" inquired the
physician.
"Certainly he would," Dick went on promptly. "Mosher, Page, or
whoever he really is, is just as natural an anarchist as the world
ever saw. He has never had anything of his own, and whenever
he sees anyone else's property that will serve him, he just says,
'Tag, you're It!' That's the way he got his nickname."
"I believe I'll go over with Harry and see if anything is missing,"
declared Dr. Bentley. "In the meantime, Prescott, suppose you
and your squad rest until I return. Just make yourselves agreeable
to the girls. I'll endeavor to be back promptly. When I come
back I shall be prepared to offer you some training suggestions
that may be of value to you."
So the flushed young athletes rested, except Harry, who departed
with the physician.
In fifteen minutes Dr. Bentley returned.
"Your warning came too late, Prescott," announced Laura's father
cheerily. "Our camp has been visited."
"Tag Mosher?" gasped Prescott.
"Impossible to say," was the smiling answer. "The caller forgot
to leave a card. But someone has cleaned us out of about a dozen
tins of food and some packages of biscuit. It must have been
quite a little load. Just by chance I also happened to think
to look at my medicine case. One vial is missing therefrom."
"What medicine did he take, did you say, sir?" asked Dave Darrin
much interested.
"I believe I didn't say," replied Dr. Bentley. "Perhaps later
on I shall tell you."
"If the thief took only a dozen tins," said Mrs. Bentley, "there
is food enough left so that we needn't worry about immediate famine.
And we have two cars, either one of which may be despatched to
bring further supplies."
"Tag is really going to move away from here, then," decided Dick
thoughtfully.
"Why do you say that?" asked Dr. Bentley.
"Because Tag has a fine appetite, and an abundance of muscle.
Instead of a dozen tins he would have taken three or four times
that amount. It is only his need for traveling in light marching
order that made him so moderate in the tax he levied."
"It's only an incident," continued Dr. Bentley. "And I am glad
of it. It shows that the young scamp is still in this neighborhood,
and that means that there is still a fair chance of his being
captured."
"I wonder why he stole one particular drug from your case?" Dick
mused aloud.
Dr. Bentley smiled, not relieving Prescott's curiosity as to the
name of the missing drug.
"It can't be that Tag means to commit suicide, as a last resort,
can it?" Dick suggested.
"I think not," smiled Dr. Bentley.
Then the leader of Dick & Co. gave up further effort along this
line to secure the desired information.
"I started in to offer you a suggestion, Prescott," continued
the medical man.
"Yes, sir; it had something to do with training, I believe."
"Before I tell you what I have to say, Prescott, suppose you put
each of your 'men' through the stunts they were doing before."
"Which one first, sir?"
"Any one of the young men."
"Dave!" called Dick.
Darrin stepped forward.
"One moment," said Dr. Bentley. He felt Dave's pulse, then nodded.
"Go ahead, Darrin."
Dave started in with the work.
"Speed it up!" ordered Dick. "Faster! Drive!"
Darry continued at his training work until Dr. Bentley called:
"Stop! Now, stand still, young man."
Bending over, Dr. Bentley placed one ear against Dave's chest,
watch in hand, while the others looked on curiously.
"Just what I thought," nodded the physician, looking up at last.
"Prescott, you have a lot of bright ideas in training, but you're
driving your squad too hard. Darrin's heart doesn't come down
to normal speed as soon as it should."
"Anything wrong with the heart, sir" asked Darry.
"Nothing. It's the trainer that's wrong," replied Dr. Bentley.
"It is a fault with a lot of trainers without long experience
that they work an athlete's heart overtime. Darrin's heart should
have slowed down in a little more than half the time required
in this instance. Set another man at work, Prescott. I can show
you how to do this properly. Let the others work as hard as Darrin
did. I want data to work on. Then I'll lay down a few suggestions
that will serve you well."
This not being interesting to the high school girls, they chatted
among themselves.
In the end Dr. Bentley read off some figures he had jotted down,
and explained to Prescott what he must regard as a satisfactory
heart performance after each bit of training work.
"Now, whenever you don't bring your work, fairly close to these
limits you'll know that you're overdoing the training," Dr. Bentley
explained. "If you overdo on training then you injure the chances
of the men of your squad. The wise trainer keeps within limits.
Keep within such limits, and you'll find that, bit by bit, your
men can endure more and more, and still pass satisfactorily as
to diminishing heart speed after stopping grilling."
"It's mighty good of you to explain all this to us, sir," Dick
protested, gratefully.
"Not in the least," replied Dr. Bentley. "You may recall the
fact that I'm medical examiner to the High School Athletic
Association."
"And I also recall, sir," Prescott rejoined, "that for your work
with the high school athletes you accept a salary of only one
dollar a year, in place of the hundred dollars that the Athletic
Association offered."
"Well, if I cut prices in selected instances, that's my own affair,
isn't it?" smiled the physician.
"Now, we'll go on with the training work," Dick soon announced,
stepping forward. "Reade! Darrin!"
So the work went on, though it was not quite so grilling after
that. The girls looked on with interest, at first, but there
was no contest in hand---nothing for any "side" to win, so presently
the high school girls found the spectacle less interesting.
Tom, standing by, mopping his face, turned to see that Miss Marshall,
her red parasol resting over one shoulder, had strolled away.
"That was kind of Clara," laughed Tom.
"What was?" inquired Belle.
"To take that red sunshade further off. It made me perspire to
look at it."
"Red silk shuts out some of the worst rays of the sun," Laura
explained wisely.
"Does it?" asked Tom. "I know there must be some excuse for carrying
a red sunshade."
Then suddenly he colored, remarking:
"That wasn't very gallant of me, but I didn't mean it quite the
way it sounds."
"And a red parasol helps throw a little tinge of color over a
face that hasn't any too much color of its own," added Susie.
"Clara is always more or less pale in summer."
"She might be a lot more pale if any of those wild cattle were
to roam back this way," smiled Dr. Bentley.
Hardly had he uttered the words when, from the edge of the woods,
there came a piercing scream, followed by a deep, bass bellow
that seemed to shake the ground.
All hands turned instantly, to see Clara running frantically,
waving the parasol in her fright, while not very far behind her
charged a bull, its head lowered.
"Drop your parasol!" cried Greg. "Throw it away."
"Then turn and run in another direction!" shouted Darrin.
Neither Dr. Bentley nor Dick Prescott uttered a word. They had
no advice ready at the instant, but turned and ran toward the
imperiled girl as fast as they could go.
Unused to such exercise, Dr. Bentley, who got the first start,
was quickly panting and red of face.
By him like a streak shot Dick Prescott, running with the speed
of the sprinter.
To face the bull empty handed was worse than useless. Dick had
to form his plans as he ran.