down my throat. Everyone here knows he’s had a whack at everything
there is and fallen down. If he doesn’t like to hear that he knows what
he can do. I’m ready to――――”
Terry leaped to his feet. “Then come on!” he cried, his eyes blazing.
“If you can do anything besides talk, prove it, you――you big――――”
“Shut up, Terry!” commanded Joe sternly. “And sit down. There isn’t
going to be any scrapping. You mustn’t fly off the handle like that.
And you, Walt, shouldn’t say such things. There’s no disgrace in
trying and failing as long as you don’t grouch about it. Terry’s plucky
to keep on trying, I think.”
“Of course he is,” agreed Tolly warmly. “You shut up, Walt.”
Walt shrugged disdainfully. “Oh, very well. Four against one――――”
“There’s one thing I haven’t fallen down at yet,” interrupted Terry,
still angry, “and that’s running, and――――”
“Also-running, you mean,” laughed Walt. “You’re the finest little
also-ran in the history of the school, Wendell!”
“Am I? Let me tell you something, Gordon. I’ll be running when you’ve
quit. If I’m an ‘also-ran,’ you’re a quitter. You quit last Fall
because Hyde had twenty yards on you in the next to the last lap. You
thought no one――――”
“That’s a lie! I turned my ankle on the board――――”
“Did you? Well, you walked well enough five minutes later. Look here,
I’ll bet you right now, anything you like, that I’ll win more points
than you when we meet Lacon!”
“Don’t be a chump, Terry,” begged Hal.
“Oh, piffle!” sneered Walt. “You won’t even be on the track!”
“That’s my lookout. Will you bet?”
“No, he won’t,” said Joe. “And that’ll be about all from both of you.
Now dry up. If I hear any more from either of you I’ll chuck you over
the ledge. Is this what you chaps call a peaceful Sunday afternoon?”
“All right, I will dry up,” replied Terry. “But he heard me. And I mean
what I said. And when the Dual Meet is over he will know it!”
The next afternoon Terry went across to the field the moment he had
finished his last recitation. Mr. Cramer――Sam to the older boys, but
“Coach” to the others――was busy with a bunch of hurdlers, amongst whom
was Hal, when Terry arrived, and he had to wait several minutes before
he was able to claim the trainer’s attention. Down at the farther end
of the oval Joe and a half-dozen others were moving about the pits,
while various white-clad forms jogged or sprinted around the track.
The Dual Meet with Lacon Academy, Maple Park’s dearest foe, was only a
little more than a fortnight distant and a late Spring had held back
the team’s development discouragingly. This Monday afternoon Coach
Cramer was in a hustling mood, and there was a hint of impatience in
his voice when he called the hurdlers back for the third start.
“Stop trying to beat the pistol!” he barked. “The next fellow who does
it will stay out. Now then, on your mark! _Set!_”
_Bang_ went the pistol and six slim, lithe figures hurled themselves
forward and went darting down the lanes. Hal began to gain at the
fourth hurdle――they were doing the 220-yards sticks――and at the finish
was running strong. Terry noticed that he held back between the last
barrier and the string and let Porter breeze past him into first place.
While the next squad were taking their places Terry addressed the
trainer.
“Mr. Cramer, don’t you think I might try the half, sir?” he asked.
“I’ve sort of got a hunch I can do better at a longer distance than the
four-forty.”
“Hello, Wendell. What’s that? The half? We don’t need you in the half,
my boy. You stick to the quarter. I guess that’s your distance, if you
have any. How are you feeling to-day?”
“Fine, sir.”
“All right. Jog a couple of laps and then try some starts. I’m going
to give you quarter-milers a trial at four.”
“Yes, sir: and about that half, Mr. Cramer. There wouldn’t be any harm
in my just trying it, would there? I mean later on, after the trial.”
“I don’t know.” The coach and trainer turned and looked Terry over
speculatively. “No, I guess not, if it’s going to please you. But take
it easy. Three minutes is fast enough. I’ll tell you now, though, that
it don’t do you any good, for we’ve got so many half-milers that we
can’t use them all.”
Terry managed to scrape past in fourth place in the four-forty trial,
beating out Connover and Dale, and felt rather proud until Mr. Cramer
dryly announced the winner’s time to have been 54⅗ seconds, which was
more than a second slower than it should have been. He wrapped himself
in his gaudy green-and-red dressing gown and went over to watch the
jumpers for awhile, and finally, when the field was nearly empty and
Pete, the grounds-keeper, was removing the standards, he walked over to
the start of the distances, wriggled out of his gown, limbered his legs
a minute and then went off, hugging the inside rim. He had to guess at
his speed. He knew from watching others that the eight-eighty was a
different race from the quarter and all the way round the first lap he
held himself back so that he might have some reserve for the finish.
But when he had put the turn behind him and entered the backstretch on
the second lap his lungs were protesting and his legs had lost their
spring. It was a pretty wobbly runner who at last crossed the finish,
and who was glad to sit down for a moment, his gown flung around his
shoulders. He was thankful that none of the few fellows remaining had
apparently noticed his journey along the homestretch. He went back
to the gymnasium rather discouraged, but a shower-bath perked him up
considerably, and after he had talked with Joe he felt still better.
For Joe pointed out that after having run in a quarter-mile trial he
had scarcely been in ideal condition to do himself justice in the
eight-eighty. Joe wasn’t especially sympathetic toward Terry’s ambition
to add the half-mile to his repertoire, but he was too good-natured to
throw cold water on it.
The next afternoon Terry divided his time――and, since he was no longer
essential to the nine, he had plenty of it――between the routine
prescribed by the coach and his self-training for the half. Perhaps
had Terry been viewed by Mr. Cramer a trifle more seriously he would
not have been allowed to risk overtraining, but the coach wasn’t
especially impressed with the boy’s efforts. Perhaps next year Terry
might find himself, and it was in that hope that the coach gave him
such encouragement as he did. Of course Terry didn’t go the full
half-mile on Tuesday, nor yet on Wednesday. He knew better than to do
that. What he did do was follow in a general way the instructions given
to the half-milers. He tried short sprints of thirty and forty yards
at top-speed, jogged a mile each day and at last, on Thursday, cut in
with the half-milers and ran the three-quarters with them――or, rather,
behind them――at a fairly good clip. He was trying hard to learn this
new distance, and it wasn’t easy. He knew fairly well how hard he could
go for the four-forty without running himself out, but twice around
the track, with eight corners to reckon instead of four, was a vastly
different proposition.
And yet, when Saturday came and he gave up seeing the Prentiss game for
the sake of running, he felt sure enough of himself to ask permission
to enter the trial with the regular half-milers. Mr. Cramer gave rather
impatient permission and Terry took his place in the second row and
tried to remain unconscious of the looks of surprise or amusement with
which his companions viewed him. Terry Wendell was in a fair way to
become rather a joke, it seemed. But Terry didn’t do so badly in the
trial, after all, for out of the field of twelve he finished seventh.
It was a poor seventh, to be sure, and he never learned his time,
but he thought that Mr. Cramer observed him a bit more tolerantly
afterwards, even if he had nothing to say to him. That race taught
Terry one thing, which was that the half-mile was not so long as he had
reckoned it. He had run too slow in the first lap. Another time, he
told himself, he would know better than to let the others get away from
him like that. He had finished the race with a lot of reserve which,
had he called on it before, might have put him in fourth place at least.
Relations between him and Walt Gordon were strained. Walt, secure in
the knowledge of his supremacy in the mile run, was not worried by
Terry’s new activity. Walt was pretty sure of handing over five points
to his school in the Dual, for Lacon was known to be weak in the
mile, and was equally sure that if Terry managed to secure the one
point that went with fourth place he would be doing more than anyone
expected of him. But Terry’s accusation to the effect that Walt had
quit in the Fall Meet held just enough truth to be unpleasant to the
latter youth, and his feelings in consequence were not very cordial
toward Terry. As to the incident mentioned, why, it didn’t amount to
much in Walt’s judgment, but, just the same, he preferred that fellows
shouldn’t suspect it. He _had_ turned his ankle in the third lap,
just as he had said, but there was no denying that had Hyde not had
a fifteen or twenty yard lead on him he would have finished the race
without untold agony. As it was, it wasn’t worth while. Everyone knew
that he was better than Hyde. And Walt hated to be beaten! He and Terry
didn’t speak to each other just now: didn’t even see each other if they
could help it: but Terry heard from Tolly that Walt was making amusing
remarks about the new half-miler: and it needed only that to make Terry
buckle down to track work harder than ever.
Tolly had covered himself with glory in the Prentiss game, getting two
hits off the visiting pitcher, which was one more than anyone else had
secured and two more than most. And he had fielded well, besides.
The fact that Prentiss had won the contest in a last fatal inning
didn’t detract from Tolly’s glory. Terry, though still hurt over being
dropped, was glad that Tolly had succeeded to his position, and said
so, and Tolly showed vast relief. “I was afraid you’d be sore at me,”
he explained. “I didn’t want you to think that I was trying to get you
out, Terry. Anyway, you’d have done just as well as I did if you’d been
in my place.” Terry wanted to think that, too, but he couldn’t quite do
it.
On Monday Mr. Cramer surprised him by saying: “I guess you’d better cut
out your sprints to-day, Wendell. You didn’t do so badly in the half
Saturday and I’ve half a mind to let you see what you can do. How did
you come through?”
“Fresh as a daisy, sir.”
“Well, go easy this afternoon. Jog a mile and do a short sprint at the
finish. If I were you I’d try for a shorter stride, my boy. It looks to
me as if you were straining a bit. There’s nothing in a long stride if
it doesn’t come natural.”
The next day, when work was over, the coach spoke again. “I’ll put you
down for the half, Wendell,” he said. “There’s no doubt about your
being a better middle-distance runner than a sprinter. And I’m not
sure that you’ve found your right line yet. Next Fall, if I were you,
I’d have a try at the mile. Maybe you can run them both. There’ll be
another trial about Friday, and if you show up well I’ll enter you for
the Dual.”
Terry went back to Munsing Hall with his heart beating high. He found
Hal Merrill and Phil Hyde there with Joe. Hyde was an upper middler, a
slim, dark-complexioned fellow with quiet manners. He and Hal roomed
together over in Warren. “Here’s another one,” said Hal as Terry
entered. “Want to go on a hike Sunday, Terry?”
“I guess so. Where?”
“Bald Mountain. We’re going to take grub along and make a fire. Phil’s
getting too fat and wants to reduce.”
“That’s a bully way of doing it,” Terry laughed, viewing Hyde’s lean
form. “Bald Mountain’s a good five miles.”
“And the last mile all uphill,” added Joe grimly. “I’m game, though.
Who else is going?”
“Guy Fosdick, I guess, and Tolly. We don’t want too many. Take that
alcohol stove of yours, Joe, will you? We’ll make some coffee on it. I
don’t mind frying steak on an open fire, but coffee’s something else
again.”
Presently Phil Hyde said to Terry: “I hear you’ve blossomed out as a
half-miler, Wendell.” Terry said “Yes” suspiciously and waited for the
inevitable joke. But Phil only remarked that he hoped Terry would beat
out some of those “one-lungers.”
“‘One-lungers’ is good,” approved Hal laughingly. “Some of those
fellows, like Lambert and Tilling, have about as much license to be
running in the half-mile as I’d have to――to throw the hammer!”
“Our chance of winning the Dual is about as big as a piece of cheese,”
growled Joe. “I was figuring this morning and all I can see with a
telescope is forty-four points. We can count on first and second in the
hundred-yards and in the mile, but I don’t see another first in sight;
unless it’s in the high hurdles.”
“Better not count on that either,” said Hal. “Munroe can beat me out
two times out of three. But what about your own stunt? Mean to say you
aren’t going to get a first in the shot-put.”
“I’m not counting on it,” replied Joe. “Cobb, of Lacon, has been doing
thirty-seven feet right along in practice, I hear.”
Hal whistled expressively, but Phil advised them not to believe all
they heard. “And don’t be too sure of second place in the mile, either,
Joe. Walt’s been doing a lot of talking about how poor our hated rival
is, but I’ve a hunch that some of their milers will give us a good
tussle. Of course, Walt’s sure of his five points, but I may be lucky
to get one instead of three. You can’t tell. Besides, they’ll enter
four or five men to our three, and that gives them the edge of the
start. Still, I guess we’ve got a show for the meet, Joe. If you can
see forty-four points to-day we can hustle around a week from Thursday
and round up a few more. Never say die, old dear!”
From Tuesday until Friday Terry lived in a condition of alternate hope
and despair. There were times when he felt that he was bound to fail
in the trial and times when he believed that he could make good. He
was still working at the quarter, but there was no disguising the fact
that at least three of his team-mates had made better progress in their
training than he had, and he felt very certain that his only chance of
representing Maple Park the following Thursday lay in qualifying with
the half-milers.
Mr. Cramer sent them away at a little after four that afternoon, a
round dozen in all, of whom no more than six could expect to be chosen
for competition against Lacon. After it was over, just two minutes and
eleven seconds later, Terry was surprised to think how easy it had
been. He had not made the mistake this time of holding back at the
start, but had pushed to third place at once and held it to the last
corner of the first lap. Then Howland set him back and he passed the
line running fourth. Stevens, setting the pace, yielded as they turned
into the backstretch and Terry was again in third place. A red-haired
senior named Wallace gave him a hard race along the straight, but Terry
beat him to the turn by a stride and hugged the rim as he came around
into the homestretch. By that time the field was strung out halfway
around and two of the competitors had fallen out. Howland had taken the
lead and was having it nip-and-tuck with Green. Terry followed a good
half-dozen yards behind. Stevens put a scare into him just short of
the finish, but Terry had something left and beat him across by a few
strides. The next morning Maple Park’s entries for the Dual Meet were
mailed to her rival and the name of Terry Wendell was amongst them.
There was no work for the track and field men on Saturday, and so Terry
and Joe sat together and saw the Lacon Academy Baseball Team go down
to defeat by the score of 6 to 5 in a ten-inning contest filled with
thrills. Starting out as a pitchers’ battle, it developed toward the
end into a fielding competition. Both sides took to hitting, but hardly
a hit got beyond the infield unless it was a high and safe fly, and
victory depended on perfect defense. It was, properly enough, Captain
Fosdick who broke the tie in the tenth. With one gone and a man on
first, Fos laid down a bunt that should have been converted into an
easy out. But Lacon’s taut nerves jangled badly and the third baseman,
trying for speed, pegged wide of first. The runner on first kept on
to third and then, with the ball speeding across to that bag, took a
long and desperate chance. He put his head down and scuttled for the
plate. Had the third baseman not been rattled by his previous misplay,
the runner’s chance would have been poor indeed, but the Lacon player,
surprised, doubtful, hesitated an instant too long and then had to
throw hurriedly. If the ball had reached the catcher below his waist he
might have sent the game into the eleventh inning, but he had to reach
for it, and before he could sweep it down on the runner that youth had
hooked a foot across the rubber and the baseball championship of the
year was Maple Park’s.
That victory cheered the school hugely and was accepted as a good
augury for the Meet. And it was reflected in the spirits of the five
boys who met in 12 Munsing at two the next day and, a few minutes later
clattered downstairs and started off on their picnic. Fos had failed
them at the last moment, and so the party was composed of Joe, Terry,
Hal, Tolly and Phil Hyde. Each one carried his portion of the provender
and cooking apparatus, Hal looking picturesque with a skillet flapping
over his hip. Tolly produced a chorus of contemptuous protest when he
wheeled his bicycle from concealment alongside the entrance of Munsing
and nonchalantly mounted it.
“This is a hike, you lazy beggar!” said Joe. “Get off that thing!”
But Tolly explained. He was a good explainer. “That’s all right for
you fellows, but I’m not up to ten miles to-day. Think of what I went
through yesterday, Joe! Winning a game like that one takes it out of
you!”
“You didn’t even get a hit!” jeered Hal.
“Hits aren’t everything,” answered Tolly loftily. “Someone has to do
the brain work. Besides, five miles _is_ a bit of a jaunt when the last
two are uphill, and we can take turns on the wheel. And we can strap a
lot of things on it, too, and not have to lug ’em.”
That sounded more reasonable and Tolly won. Later they were thankful
that he had, for Fate brought about circumstances that made that
bicycle a fortunate possession. They didn’t try for a record and
consumed nearly three hours in reaching the top of Bald Mountain. The
roads were good until they reached the little village of Pearson, at
the foot of the mountain, but from there they had rough going. The
wagon road which wound to the summit by devious ways was rutted and
rock-strewn and the last half of it was pretty steep. But they took
it easy and were on top before five and at half-past had their fire
going in the stone fire-place that some thoughtful persons had built
several years before. They still had three hours of daylight before
them, a cooling breeze swept past them from the southwest and they
were comfortably weary and as hungry as five bear cubs. Hal cooked
and Terry officiated at the coffee pot. After all they had to make
coffee over the fire, for, although Joe had faithfully brought along
his alcohol heater, he had made the lamentable mistake of forgetting
the alcohol! But the coffee tasted all right, even if it was muddy.
And the steak――well, when Tolly got his first taste of that steak he
just turned his eyes Heavenward and said “_Oh boy!_” in awed rapture.
There were baked potatoes, too, a bit solid in the middle and somewhat
charred outside but fine elsewhere, and toast――if you could wait for
it――and bananas and cakes of chocolate. Nothing marred the beatific
success of the jaunt up to the time that the fog arrived. It was Joe
who drew the attention of the others to the fact that the wide-flung
landscape below them was no longer visible. As a fog on Bald Mountain
is a damp and chilly affair, and as it is no particular aid to finding
one’s way down a road that twists like a grapevine, they decided to
make an early start.
They still had the sinking sun in their eyes when they began the
descent, but when they had dropped a few hundred feet the gray mist
was about them and, as the sun took that moment to disappear behind the
mountain, they found that they had to proceed slowly and cautiously.
It would be no difficult task to walk off the winding road and so get
down faster and more painfully than desired. Tolly, who had eaten
well but not wisely, had his wheel as well as himself to navigate and
was frequently heard regretting the fact that he had yielded to the
blandishments of the others and fetched it along! More than once the
party came to a pause while Joe, leading, gingerly sought the direction
of the erratic wagon road. The fog began to depress them and affected
even Tolly’s good-nature. Twilight deepened the gloom and called for an
increase of caution, and Joe had just finished an admonition to keep
well toward the mountain side of the road when the accident happened.
There was a sharp exclamation of dismay and then a crashing of the
bushes and low, stunted trees and silence. “What’s that?” called Joe
startledly. “Anyone hurt?”
“Someone went over!” cried Hal. “Terry, I think!”
“I’m here! Tolly?”
“Here! I think it was Phil. O Phil!” There was no answer. They called
again, creeping cautiously to the unguarded edge of the road. “I heard
someone stumble,” gasped Hal, “and then something that sounded like
‘_Gee!_’ and then――――”
“We’ve got to go down there,” said Joe. “I wish we had a flashlight.
Who’s got matches?”
They found him presently, thirty feet below, lodged against a small
boulder that projected from the steep face of the cliff. They could
get no reply to their anxious appeals, and when, by the light of many
matches that burned dimly in the heavy mist, they found the back of his
head wet with blood the explanation confronted them. Tolly went quite
to pieces and babbled incoherently, but the others, to their credit,
kept their heads in spite of their horror and fear. It was a hard task
to get him back to the road, but they did it at last, and then an
attempt was made to use the bicycle as an ambulance. But two trials
showed the impossibility of that, for the road was never meant for
bicycle traffic. To search for poles to make a litter of was out of the
question, for the trees were small, wind-twisted things and the gloom
was too deep for searching further. In the end it was Terry’s plan that
was adopted. The others were to carry Phil between them as best they
might and he would take the bicycle and get to Pearson as fast as he
could and bring the doctor back.