even if he lives far beyond the allotted age of man. Once started there
was no actual stopping, since he discovered to his dismay that Tolly’s
wheel had no coaster brake. All he could do was hold back to the best
of his ability, try to keep away from the outer edge of the road and
trust to luck. Fortunately the fog thinned almost at once and the road
was dimly visible ahead. But rocks and ruts were not visible, at least
not in time for avoidance, and more than a dozen times Terry’s heart
jumped into his throat as he felt the wheel bound aside perilously
near the edge. After a minute or two the descent became more gradual
and the roadbed better and he threw discretion to the winds and went
tearing, bounding down, clinging to handlebars and saddle on a mad
coast. In spite of his danger, or perhaps because of it, there was
an exhilaration that made him forget for a moment or two the purpose
of his errand. But then a vision of Phil’s white face under the dim
light of flickering matches returned to him and he shuddered and
would have gone faster yet had that been possible. Then the mountain
road straightened out, the fog was gone, the wind ceased roaring past
his ears and making his eyes water and lights shone faintly through
the late twilight ahead. Short of the village he found his pedals
again and, save that his cap had left him far back, presented a fairly
reputable appearance as he brought up before the gate of the little
white house on which he had noted in the afternoon a doctor’s sign.
Fortunately the physician, a middle-aged and rather stodgy man, was
at home, and fortunately too his small automobile was standing in the
lane beside the house, its little engine chugging merrily, and in less
than four minutes Terry had leaned Tolly’s bicycle against the white
picket fence and was rattling and jouncing away into the early darkness
with Doctor Strang. Presently the little car was panting against the
increasing grade but still going well, dodging stones and obstacles,
and before it was forced to acknowledge defeat Joe, Hal and Tolly came
into sight through the darkness with Phil on their shoulders.
Then, with Phil on the back seat of the car and the boys hanging on
wherever they could, the automobile was somehow turned and sent racing
down the road again. Terry helped carry the still unconscious boy into
the doctor’s office and then stood by while an examination was made.
There was one long sigh of relief from all when the verdict was given.
Phil had had a pretty hard blow on the base of the brain, producing
unconsciousness, explained Doctor Strang, but there appeared to be no
fracture of the skull, and it was likely that a few days in bed would
bring him around where he could try more fool stunts like walking off
the side of a mountain! After that the doctor got efficiently busy
and ten minutes later Phil, conscious again, but pretty well bruised
and not inclined to talk, was back in the car and they set off for
Maple Park. It was nearly nine when they reached school and long after
midnight before sleep came to either Terry or Joe.
Phil was a sick looking boy when Terry came in to see him for a minute
the next afternoon in the infirmary, but he spoke hopefully of being
all right by Thursday and Terry went off to the field presently with
no premonition of what awaited him there. Lacon’s list of entries had
arrived and Mr. Cramer and Steve Cooper, the latter captain of the
Track Team and Maple Park’s all-around athlete, had looked it over and
gone into executive session. Lacon had six nominees for the mile run
against Maple Park’s three. Of course she might not start them all when
the time came, but if she did Maple Park was due for a hard time. Six
against three, with all the possibilities of pace-making, pocketing
and general team-work, was too great an odds, and coach and captain
did some tall thinking. If Hyde was able to run they might chance it,
but if he wasn’t they would have only Gordon and Pillon; two entries
against six!
“I don’t like it,” said Mr. Cramer. “It doesn’t look good, Cap. Whether
Hyde enters or doesn’t it’s safe to say that he won’t be much use to
us. I’m for filling up with two or three men to make it look like a
race, anyway. We can count on Gordon copping first or second place, but
we need more points than that. That Lacon bunch can kill off Pillon
easily. Look here, let’s start a couple of half-milers. They can’t do
any harm and they may worry Lacon a bit. If Howland makes the pace
half-way through it may upset Lacon’s calculations and let us edge in
for third place. Howland and Green and――I wonder about young Wendell,
Cap. The boy’s got a lot of grit and he will try anything you can show
him. And I’m not so sure he isn’t meant for a miler, anyway. At least
he might give those red-and-gray fellows a tussle. Sound fair?”
Cooper thought it did, and that’s why, when the day’s workouts were
over three surprised half-milers were trying to get used to the
knowledge that just three days later they were to “kill themselves”
in two laps of a mile run. Neither Howland nor Green showed much
enthusiasm at the prospect. There would be perhaps thirty minutes
between the races, but Howland didn’t think that he would have much
appetite for the mile after running the half, no matter how much rest
he got between whiles. And Green spoke to much the same effect. Of
the three only Terry was pleased. Terry was more than pleased. He was
supremely delighted. He didn’t imagine for a moment that he would
secure first place, or second, or third, but he had a sort of sneaking
idea that fourth place might not be beyond the possibilities, and when
he recalled that rash boast to Walt Gordon he realized that one point
might save him from utter disgrace. He had often wondered why on earth
he had ever issued such a crazy challenge as that! He had as much
chance of winning more points than Walt as――as he had of flying!
There was easy work on Tuesday and none at all on Wednesday, save
that certain of the team were sent on a walk into the country in the
afternoon. Terry was among them. So was Walt Gordon, still haughty
and contemptuous. Hyde was not. It was known now that Phil had been
dropped. He was still in bed and still plastered and bandaged. Maple
Park wasn’t thinking any too well of her chances of winning the Meet
just then. Terry was no longer down for the four-forty. In something
under three weeks he had developed from a quarter-miler into a
distance runner, which was, to use Tolly’s phrase, “going some!” As
the day of the Meet drew near Terry began to experience a mild form
of stage-fright, and there were moments when he almost, if not quite,
wished that he had been less ambitious and had only the four-forty to
win or fail in.
Thursday dawned with a drizzling rain. Before noon the sun came out
hotly, but the track was sodden and slow and the jumping-pits little
better than mud-holes. Lacon arrived, colorful and noisy, at twelve
and by two o’clock the athletic field was a busy scene. The small
grand-stand was crowded and spectators to the number of nearly a
thousand lined the rope outside the track. A tent which flew the
cardinal-and-gray of Lacon Academy had been set up as a dressing place
for the visitors and about it lolled or strolled a fine-looking band
of invaders. The trials in the 100-yards dash opened the event, while
pole-vaulters and jumpers began their leisurely competitions.
Maple Park showed up badly in the first events. Hal Merrill won her
only first in the sprints and got a second place in the high hurdles.
In the low hurdles he failed to qualify, getting a poor start and
not being able to make it up. The quarter-mile went to Lacon and she
took eight of the eleven points. In the field events, however, the
home team was showing up unexpectedly well and, when the half-mile
was called, the adversaries were running close as to scores. That
half-mile proved to be a pretty run. In spite of rumor, Lacon was not
so strong as feared, and Howland finished a good eight yards ahead of
the next runner, a Lacon youth. Terry got third place, to everyone’s
surprise, beating out a red-and-gray boy in the final twenty yards.
Terry got more applause from his schoolmates than Howland, I think,
and walked back to the gymnasium breathless but delighted. At last, he
told himself, he had really succeeded in something, and even if winning
third place and thereby adding two points to Maple Park’s score wasn’t
anything to gloat over it was highly satisfactory to him!
With all events save the mile run, the hammer throw and the pole vault
decided it was still anyone’s victory. Maple Park had 51 points and
Lacon 48. Then, while the milers were limbering up in front of the
grand-stand, word came of the hammer-throw and Lacon had taken six of
the eleven points and was now but two points behind. She had already
secured a first in the pole-vault and it was a question what of the
remaining places she would capture. It very suddenly dawned on the
spectators that the Meet hinged on the last event and that the victory
would likely go to the team winning the majority of points in the mile
run!
Perhaps it was as well for Terry’s peace of mind that he didn’t know
that, for he was feeling rather out of his element and extremely
doubtful as to the part he was to play. His instructions had been to
get up with Howland and Green and force the running as long as he
could, taking the lead from Howland, in case that runner secured it,
and making the pace a hot one to at least the end of the second lap.
But they had placed him in the second row of starters and well toward
the outer edge of the track and he foresaw difficulties in making
his way to the front. Gordon was almost directly ahead and Pillon
was second man from the pole in the first rank, with Howland rubbing
elbows with him. Then the word came to get set and an instant later
they were off, crowding in toward the board, jostling and scurrying.
But that didn’t last long. In a moment or two all had found their
places, a long-legged Lacon runner named Shores setting the pace. At
the turn Pillon went past Shores and Howland passed Pillon. Terry was
in fifth place, with Green just ahead. Walt Gordon was seventh man
and Mullins, the Lacon hope, was ninth. Once around the turn Howland
caused a ripple of surprise by drawing ahead at a killing pace. Shores
accepted the challenge and the leaders generally moved faster, but
neither Gordon nor Mullins altered their speed a mite. Terry moved into
fourth place and the field began to string out. Howland kept the lead
to the end of the lap and then weakened, and Terry, remembering
instructions, strove to get to the front. But Green was at his toes
and a Lacon runner had him effectually pocketed as they went into the
turn. Consequently it was Green who became pace-maker, and a hard pace
he set. One by one the tail-enders fell farther and farther away and
the contestants formed into two groups. At the half distance the order
was Green, Shores, Pillon, Terry, an unknown Lacon runner, Gordon and
Mullins. Well back trailed Howland and three Lacon men.
Green was soon finished as a pace-maker and in the back-stretch Shores
was again in front. As Green dropped back to Terry he gasped: “Get up
there, Wendell!” And Terry tried, but the Lacon unknown moved even and
held him at every attempt, and then came the turn and Terry gave it up.
The race was telling on him now and his legs were getting heavy and his
lungs hot. Into the homestretch they went, the crowd shouting wildly.
As they sped past the mark the brazen gong clanged, announcing the
beginning of the last lap, and at that instant Mullins dug his spikes
and edged himself forward. Past his team-mate he went, past Terry, past
Pillon, and took his place close behind Shores. From behind him Terry
heard the Lacon supporters shout their triumph. He wondered where Walt
was. Every instant he expected to see the blue-and-white runner edge
past him. But they made the turn and straightened out and still Gordon
held back. Terry grew frightened then. Shores and Mullins were gaining.
Pillon came back steadily as Terry dug harder and sought to overtake
the leaders. The unknown Lacon man――his name later turned out to have
been Geary, but at the time Terry had to hate him without being able
to put a name to him――crept up and past. Terry’s fleeting glimpse of
him showed him a runner nearly “all in” but making a desperate effort.
Terry took courage and set his pace by the unknown’s. And just then the
sound from across the oval took on a new note and something appeared at
Terry’s shoulder and slowly moved into sight and Terry, to his great
relief, saw that the something was Walt Gordon.
It was only when Walt had put a half-dozen yards between them and
leaned to the turn that Terry realized with sudden alarm that Walt
was in little better condition than the unknown who, just in front of
Terry, was wavering badly, his head sagging. Shores yielded the lead to
Mullins half-way around the turn and an instant later Terry passed the
unknown. He was running now with only a firm determination to finish.
It would have been the greatest joy in life to have staggered aside
and dropped full-length on the blurred expanse of sod at his feet. He
wasn’t even thinking of points or places. He only wanted to finish what
he had started, and he prayed silently and incoherently to be allowed
to keep his feet past that distant white mark.
Down at the finish were straining eyes and taut nerves, for the
pole-vault was over and Lacon had won first place and fourth and the
score now stood 61 to 60 in favor of Maple Park. As the runners made
the turn Maple Park’s supporters read defeat. Showing the pace, but
still looking strong, came Mullins with a good five yard lead over
Gordon, who was a scant yard ahead of Shores. Four or five paces
behind them was Pillon, about ready to quit, and Terry, scarcely less
willing. The unknown had disappeared. If Gordon had looked better Maple
Park would have found reason to hope, but he was already slipping.
For once his well-known ability to sprint at the finish was lacking.
Terry, looking across the last corner, saw Walt’s head fall back. Walt
recovered the next instant, but Terry understood. Pillon, too, was
giving up. There was nothing to it now but Lacon, and maybe the Meet
would go to the Cardinal-and-White! Terry’s distorted face writhed with
a scowl. If only he had somehow kept himself fresher! If only he could
cut down that distance! They were in the homestretch now and the finish
was in sight. There wasn’t time, even if he had the strength and lungs.
Pillon was no longer in sight to Terry now: only Shores, wobbling on
his long, spindly legs, Walt, losing at every stride, and Mullins,
ready to drop but still fighting. Still fighting! Why, two could play
at that game! After all, thought Terry, he was still there and his legs
were still working under him and his breath was still coming! Perhaps
if he tried desperately―――― There might be time――――.
Somehow he reached Shores, ran even with him for an instant and passed
him. Then Walt came back to him, slowly but surely. He was running in
a dream now, a dream filled with a great noise that seemed to come
from very far away, a dream that was a nightmare of leaden limbs and
aching lungs and tired body. He felt no triumph when he pulled up to
Walt, no exultation when he went past him. He hardly knew that he had
done so. His wavering gaze was fixed on the one last form between him
and the nearing goal. He knew now that he could never overtake it, but
he kept on, doggedly, fighting against exhaustion at every stride.
The great noise was louder in his ears but meant nothing to him. A
little distance away down that interminable gray path other forms were
stretched from rim to rim. When he got there he would be through. That
would be wonderful!
Something tried to get in his way and he weakly put out a hand as
though to push it aside, but some saving sense, or it may have been
utter weakness, prevented, and he let it fall again. He scraped slowly
past the obstacle, slowly because the obstacle appeared to be going his
way and hung at his elbow for what seemed long minutes, and staggered
on. Once his feet got sort of confused and he nearly fell, but he saved
himself. He had forgotten Mullins now, everything save his desire to
reach that goal, to finish what he had attempted, to come through! And
suddenly he was struggling weakly against arms that tried to hold him
back, panting, swaying.
“Let me alone!” he gasped. “Let me――finish!”
“You have finished, Terry!” said a voice that was very far away.
“You’ve won, you crazy kid!”
* * * * *
So that’s how Terry “came through” and how Maple Park School discovered
a new miler. Also how the Blue-and-White won the Dual Meet from Lacon,
for Walt Gordon staggered over in fourth place, making the final
figures 67 to 65. Walt was never quite the same after that, for his
self-esteem had had a pretty severe blow, and as a result he was much
more likeable. He must have been, else he and Terry would never have
roomed together the next year.
SPOOKS
Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., had solemnly pronounced anathema, malediction
and imprecation upon Talbot Cummings. He had put his whole heart and
soul into it and concentrated until his head felt funny. That had been
yesterday afternoon, just after dinner, and now, more than twenty-four
hours later, there was Cummings stalking untroubledly along the sloppy
walk in the direction of the library, for all the world as if Jonesie’s
passionate utterances had been benedictions and blessings. Gee, it was
enough to make a fellow doubt the efficacy of condemnation! Jonesie
flattened his somewhat button-like nose against the pane in order to
watch his enemy’s ascent of the library steps. It was February, and such
things as steps and walks were treacherous surfaces of glaring ice under
pools of water. But Cummings never even faltered, and Jonesie’s radiant
vision of his enemy prostrate with a number of broken limbs and all
sorts of mysterious internal injuries, to say nothing of outward
contusions, lacerations and abrasions, faded into thin air. A prey to
keen disappointment, his painfully oblique gaze unwavering, Jonesie
watched Cummings disappear and the big oak door closed behind him.
Disconsolately he sank back on the window-seat, rearranged his feet
on “Sparrow” Bowles’ treasured crimson silk cushion and again took up
his book. But although it was one of Kingston’s corkingest sea-yarns,
to-day it failed to hold Jonesie’s attention, and presently it was
face-down on that young gentleman’s stomach while his thoughts pursued
the hated Cummings.
Cummings, you must know, had dealt a frightful blow at Jonesie’s
dignity. Cummings might call it a joke, but its victim viewed it
rather as a dastardly attempt to disgrace him. It had started with a
perfectly excusable confusion of words on Jonesie’s part; and if blame
lay anywhere save on Cummings it lay on the English language, which
contained words that looked alike and meant differently.
Cummings, who roomed next door, had dropped in to borrow an eraser,
and while Jonesie, who didn’t possess such a thing, was obligingly
rummaging through the cherished treasures of the absent room-mate,
Cummings’s reptilian eye had fallen on a composition on which his host
had been engaged and which he had left on the table. Jonesie had next
heard a choking sound from the visitor and had then witnessed his
hurried departure, composition in hand. Surprised, Jonesie had made
outcry. Then, suspicious, nay, chilled with dire apprehension, he had
given chase. But a moment of delay had been his undoing. Below on the
steps, where, since it was a mild, thawing day, most of the inhabitants
of the dormitory were awaiting two o’clock recitations, Cummings was
already reading aloud Jonesie’s epochal essay. “‘The ancient Greeks,’”
gurgled the traitorous Cummings, “‘had a law forbidding a man to have
more than one wife.’” The reader’s voice broke, and Jonesie felt that
the tears were near his eyes. “‘This they called _monotony_!’”
“Well, what’s wrong with it?” Jonesie had demanded indignantly,
striving to recover the paper. And that, somehow, had increased the
hilarity. After that it was no use pretending that he had discovered
the mistake and was in the act of remedying it when Cummings had
entered, no use declaring, as a final desperate resort, that he had
purposely written it that way for fun. No one believed him, no one
even listened to him. Everyone just laughed and laughed! For a minute
Jonesie had laughed, too, but he couldn’t keep it up. And Cummings had
waved the beastly paper out of his reach and gurgled “‘This they called
_monotony_’” over and over, until Jonesie’s temper had fled and he had
kicked at Cummings’s shins and promised to get even if it took him a
million years! He had said other things, too, which we won’t set down
here. And his tormentor had simply laughed and choked and gurgled, and
fought him off weakly until, after awhile, a lucky grab had secured
the torn and wrinkled paper and Jonesie had fled back to his room with
it. Since then life had been a horrible nightmare. His appearance in
class rooms had been the signal for idiotic grins and whisperings. The
demure smiles of the instructors showed to what far distances the story
had spread. Dining hall was a torture chamber. “What was that law the
ancient Greeks had, Jonesie?” came to him across the table, or “Guess
I’ll try the apple sauce, Billy, just to vary the _monotony_.”
As I have said, the month was February, and February at prep school
corresponds to August in the larger world. It’s the “silly season.”
The weather is too utterly “punk” for outdoor life. Detestable thaws
ruin sledding, skating and skiing. It is still too early for Spring
sports. Even mid-year examinations are things of the past. Gray skies,
frequent rains, rotten ice, slush and mud: that’s February. Studying
wearies, reading palls, one tires of everything. Room-mates who have
lived together in harmony for months throw hair-brushes at each other
and don’t speak for days at a time. It is, in brief, a deadly dull,
wearisome season, a season in which the healthy boy welcomes anything
that promises to enliven his pallid existence, when mischief finds its
innings and when the weakest, sorriest joke is hailed as roaring farce.
At almost any other time the jest on Jonesie would have been laughed at
good-naturedly and forgotten the next day, but now it was a thing to be
treasured and acclaimed, nourished and perpetuated. Jonesie knew that
until baseball practice started, or――or one of the school dormitories
burned to the ground or something equally interesting happened, he
would not hear the end of that putrid joke, and that if he had ever
been uncertain of the correct meaning of the word monotony that
uncertainty was gone!
Disturbed by such knowledge, he stirred fretfully and the book fell
to the floor and lay there unheeded while his thoughts engaged the
subject of curses. He had always understood that a curse if properly
formulated and delivered with earnestness and solemnity invariably did
the business. Only just before Christmas Recess he had read a corking
story in which a quite ordinary curse had worked wonders. He tried to
find flaws in the maledictions he had cast on Cummings but couldn’t.
As he recalled them they were perfectly regular, standard curses, and
he didn’t see why nothing had happened. Of course, it might be that
curses didn’t act right off quick. Or it might be――and Jonesie gave
a mental jump at the thought――that it was necessary to sort of help
the curse along. Maybe it wasn’t enough to just launch it: maybe you
were supposed to get behind and shove! In other words, if he wanted
ill-fortune in its most dreaded form to overwhelm the obnoxious
Cummings perhaps he had better set his mind at work and sort of――sort
of think of something! Not a bad idea at all! Besides, hadn’t he most
earnestly promised Cummings to get even with him? He had. Therefor――――.
Jonesie knit his troubled brow and half closed his innocent gray-blue
eyes and gave himself to the problem. There was no use in attempting
physical punishment, for Cummings was seventeen and Jonesie fourteen,
and Cummings was tall and broad and mighty and Jonesie was only what
his age warranted. No, what was needed, what was demanded was a revenge
that would hold Cummings up to public ridicule as Jonesie had been held
up and keep him suspended until the world tired of laughing. But just
how――――.
The door of the adjoining room banged shut and Jonesie knew that
Cummings had returned from the library. A second _bang_ proclaimed
books deposited on the table. He hoped Cummings had failed to get what
he wanted. One usually did at the school library. He heard his hated
neighbor draw his chair to the window and heard it creak under its
load. If only, thought Jonesie, it would give way instead of always
threatening to! Eying the door between the rooms that hid the enemy
from sight, Jonesie contemplated a fresh curse; something with more
“pep” than yesterday’s; less academic and more in the vernacular. But
that would necessitate arising, and he was very comfortable, and he
decided to give the original curse another twenty-four hours to deliver
the goods; meanwhile, of course, aiding and abetting said curse to the
best of his ability so soon as his cogitations should suggest――――.