FERRY HILL VS. HAMMOND
The Oval at Hammond Academy lies on a broad plateau just beyond the
campus. Back of it the hill sweeps abruptly away, covered with a dense
growth of timber. From the top of the grand stand one can almost see
the river over the roof of the nearest dormitory. Nature has supplied
an ideal spot for an athletic ground and human hands have made the
most of it. There is an excellent quarter-mile cinder track twelve
feet wide, supplemented by a straight-away for the 220 yards’ dash
and the low hurdles. Inside the track is a perfectly level expanse of
well-kept turf which made the Ferry Hill visitors sigh with envy. The
grand stand is small but well-built and well-maintained, and at one
end of it there is a tiny building which serves as a dressing-room
and store-house. From its roof a short flag-pole to-day bore the
cherry-and-black banner of Hammond, while from an improvised staff at
the top of the grand stand floated a bedraggled Ferry Hill flag.
The day was warm and, since there had been no rain for some time, the
little breezes made miniature whirlwinds of dust along the track. By
half past two the stand was well filled. Ferry Hill had preëmpted the
south end, and her small band of supporters were cheering vigorously.
Below, about the starting-line for the 100 yards’ dash, a dozen
officials, instructors and students of the two schools, were awaiting
the contestants.
Near the curve of the field to the right the entries for the shot put
and broad jump had gathered, the white costumes with their dashes of
cherry-and-black or of brown gleaming brightly against the vivid green
of the level turf. The breezes fluttered the handkerchiefs laid along
the runway to indicate the points at which the jumpers were to find
their strides, and whipped the loose trunks tightly against straining
leg muscles as the white-clad bodies raced over the brown path.
The clerk of the course, a Hammond youth, bawled importantly for the
contestants in the trial heats of the 100 yards and presently eight
youths gathered at the head of the stretch. Three were Ferry Hill
entries and five wore the Hammond colors. Four at a time they sped down
the alleys and Ferry Hill found cause for rejoicing, for three of her
sprinters had qualified for the finals--Post, Eaton and Walker--while
only one Hammond man had made good.
Up on the grand stand Harry signified her delight by waving the
brown-and-white banner she carried. Beside her was Mr. Kearney, and
beyond him Mrs. Emery and the Doctor. The visitor had pleaded ignorance
and Harry was explaining volubly.
“There are twelve events, you see,” she said. “And in each one the
first four fellows count. The winner makes five points, the one coming
in second makes three, third place counts two and fourth place one.
That makes eleven points for each event, or 132 points for the meet.
And of course the team that wins a majority of the 132 points wins the
meet. Do you see what I mean?”
“I think so. But wouldn’t it be possible for each side to make half of
132 points? Then nobody would win, eh?”
“It would be a tie. But it doesn’t very often happen that way, Mr.
Kearney. I hope it won’t to-day, don’t you?”
“Yes, it’s better to have it decided one way or the other, I guess.
What are they going to do now?”
“I think this is the 120 yards’ hurdles; the high hurdles, they call
it. We won’t do much in this because we have only two fellows entered
and neither of them is much good. That’s Kirby, the tall one. He’s one
of the pitchers on the base-ball team.”
“I see. He’s a fine looking boy, Miss Harriet. Here they come! Hello,
some one’s taken a tumble!”
“It’s Glidden,” said Harry disappointedly. “We won’t get a single point
out of this, I’ll-- Oh, yes we will! Go it, Kirb! Go it! There! He was
second, wasn’t he?”
But when the megaphone was pointed in their direction, Baxter, official
announcer, gave Hammond first, second and fourth places and Ferry Hill
third.
“That makes Hammond 9 and Ferry Hill 2,” said Harry. “Well, we didn’t
expect anything in the high hurdles, so we’re really two points ahead,
aren’t we?”
“Half-milers this way!” called the clerk.
Ferry Hill had three candidates for this event, Porter, Pryor and
Kirby, to Hammond’s six. But both Roy and Pryor were expected to win
places, and Ferry Hill’s supporters cheered confidently. Then the
nine runners were poised on the mark, the pistol barked, and there was
a little struggle for the pole. As they swept by the stand Holmes of
Hammond was making the pace, with Pryor close behind him and Roy well
back in the bunch. At the first turn they strung out along the inner
rim of the track, the pace-maker taking it very easy indeed. Into the
back-stretch they went, nine white-clad bodies agleam in the sunlight,
and a cheer arose from where the brown-and-white flags fluttered as
Pryor stepped around Holmes and took the lead, setting a pace that
opened up several yards between them. After the next turn the runners
were well stretched out along the track, and as they swept into the
home-stretch and finished the first lap and the first half of the
distance it was evident that only five of the nine would dispute the
points. These were Porter and Pryor of Ferry Hill and Holmes, James and
Garrison of Hammond. Kirby apparently had not recovered from the high
hurdles and was running next to last, quite out of the race.
As the runners passed the stand the flags waved and the cheers urged
them on. It was Pryor, Holmes, James, Porter and Garrison now, and this
order was maintained until they were once more in the back-stretch.
Then Roy passed James and Holmes took the lead from Pryor. An eighth
of a mile from the finish the pace increased. Garrison dropped farther
and farther behind and Roy crept past Pryor. At the turn the latter,
run out, dropped behind James and finally was overhauled by Garrison.
Into the home-stretch sped the first three runners with scarce two
yards dividing first man from last. The stand was on its feet, flags
waving and voices straining. Then, twenty yards from the tape, James
of Hammond spurted magnificently and had passed the two ahead of him
before they knew it. Roy with a final effort worked loose from Holmes
and crossed the line a bare two yards back of James. Hammond 8, Ferry
Hill 3.
“Oh,” said Harry disappointedly, “that’s too bad. Dick was counting on
six points in the eight-eighty. Let me see, that makes the score 17 to
5 in Hammond’s favor. Isn’t that just too mean for anything?”
Mr. Kearney agreed smilingly that it was. “But it’s early yet,” he
said. “They’re putting up the strings again. What does that mean?”
“Final of the hundred yards’ dash,” answered Harry. “Oh, I do hope Chub
will win this!”
“Chub? Let me see now, he’s one of the four conspirators--I mean one of
the society, isn’t he?”
“Yes. His real name is Tom, you know. That’s he; the boy with the white
sweater over his shoulders; see?”
“Yes. So that’s Tom? And your name is Harriet; and then there’s a Dick,
too, isn’t there?”
“Why, yes, Dick Somes.”
“To be sure. And the fourth one?”
“Roy, the boy that just came in second in the half-mile.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Kearney. “I think I have you straightened out
now. Shall we stand up so we can see this better?”
Ferry Hill was certain of three places in the 100 yards since she had
three of the four entries, but it was going to make some difference
which those places were. Chub and Post and Walker were crouching side
by side, each at the head of his alley, and with them was the lone
Hammond entry, a fellow named Ranck. Mr. Kearney ventured a mild pun on
the name, but Harry was too intent to heed it. Then the pistol broke
the stillness and the four leaped away from the mark and came charging
down the track. It was all over in an instant--to be exact, ten and two
fifths seconds--with Chub first by a yard and Ranck in second place.
Harry mourned the loss of second place but looked cheerful as she
scrawled a very big, black 8 to Ferry Hill’s credit. The score so far
stood Ferry Hill 13, Hammond 20; and that looked lots better than 5 to
17.
There was quite a field for the 220 yards’ dash, and three trial heats
were run before the participants in the finals were decided on. In the
end Ferry Hill won two places and Hammond two, Post and Chub Eaton
qualifying for the brown-and-white.
The quarter-mile run was a tame affair, Holmes of Hammond taking the
lead at the start and never being once headed to the tape. Roy won
second place again, followed by Pryor and Kirby, and Ferry Hill’s stock
went up several points. The score now stood 19 for the visitors and
25 for the home team. Things began to look more cheerful, and Dick,
looking over Sid’s shoulder as the manager reckoned up the points, felt
encouraged and even hopeful. But ten minutes later the prospect was
very black indeed. The result of the pole vault was made known, giving
Hammond 9½ points and Ferry Hill 1½, Cullum having tied a Hammondite
for third place. Then the best Glidden was able to do in the low
hurdles was to come in a bad fourth.
“The dickens!” wailed Sid. “That gives them 45½ to our 21½! I guess
it’s all over but the shouting, Dick.”
“And I guess we won’t have to do any of that,” was the answer. “Isn’t
the broad jump finished? I’m going over to see. By the way, what comes
next? Two-twenty dash? Where’s Chub? Find him and send him over to me,
Sid.”
But the announcer was already busy with his crimson megaphone, and Dick
stopped to listen. Ferry Hill had secured first and third places in the
broad jump and second, third and fourth in the shot put. Sid’s pencil
worked busily as the cheers swept across from the south end of the
stand.
“That’s better,” breathed Dick as he watched the totals appear. “Ferry
Hill 34½, Hammond 54½.”
“We’ve only gained four points,” objected Sid.
“Yes, but I didn’t look for anything much in either of those events,
and we got the big end of each. Give us six points in the high jump,
six in the hammer throw and five in the two-twenty, Sid, and see what
it foots up.”
“Only 51½,” said Sid.
“Is that all?” Dick frowned perplexedly. “We’ll have to find some more
somewhere, then. Oh, Chub! Chub Eaton! Where’s Post? Hurry him up; I
want to see you both.”
Affairs began to look up for Ferry Hill after the 220 yards’ dash, for
Post won handily and Chub found the tape a bare six inches ahead of
Ranck of Hammond. Another Hammondite, Custis, took fourth. And when the
time was announced it was found that Post had simply knocked the top
off of Hammond’s record for that event. The latter was 24⅖ seconds,
and Post had finished in 24 flat. Then came the results of the high
jump and the hammer throw, and Ferry Hill’s supporters went crazy with
delight. In each event the wearers of the brown-and-white had done
better than any one had dared expect. In the jump they had secured all
but two points and in the hammer throw Fernald had sent the weight 129
feet 6 inches, securing first place by over four feet from his nearest
competitor, Harris. Post had got third place, leaving only one point
for the cherry-and-black. And the score showed Ferry Hill ahead, 61½ to
59½!
Up on the stand Harry was dancing with glee, deaf to the smiling
remonstrances of her mother. Mr. Kearney, too, made no effort to
disguise his pleasure and excitement.
“Well, I fancy that means a victory for us, eh, Miss Harriet?” he
asked. “There’s only one more event, isn’t there?”
“Yes, the mile run,” answered Harry breathlessly. “And--oh, where’s
my pencil? Quick! Thank you. Oh, dear! We’ve got to get at least five
points or Hammond will win yet! We must get first place or second and
third! Oh, I don’t believe we can ever do it! There’s only Dick and
Chase; the others aren’t any good at all! Dick! Dick! You’ve got to
win!”
“Well, from what I’ve heard of him, I think he’s quite likely to,” said
Mr. Kearney smilingly.
“He hasn’t been doing very well, though,” grieved Harry. “You see, he’s
had so much to think about and attend to! I don’t see how it could be a
tie, but if it should--would--do we get the money?”
“I’d have to think about that,” answered Mr. Kearney gravely. “You
recollect that the terms called for a victory.”
“Oh, I know! But wouldn’t it be awful if we lost the dormitory by half
a point?”
“I suppose it would,” said he, looking smilingly at her pale face.
“Well, I won’t promise, Miss Harriet, but maybe in that case I might
give something, say a thousand or two. How would that do?”
“It--it would be better than nothing,” answered Harry without
enthusiasm. “Oh, I do wish they’d hurry!”
“It is a bit uncomfortable, this suspense. We ought to call this race
the Dormitory Stakes, eh?”
“It isn’t too late to cancel that wager, Mr. Kearney,” laughed the
Doctor, leaning across. But the other shook his head.
“I don’t want to, Doctor. That check will be cheap for a victory over
our old rival.”
“There!” cried Harry. “They’re on their marks! Why, Warren isn’t there!
That gives us only three men! Isn’t it dreadful?”
“Which is Dick Somes?” asked the visitor. Harry pointed him out with a
finger that trembled.
“The big boy with the yellowish hair,” she whispered. “And the little
one is Chase. And Townsend’s next to him on the left. The boy with
black hair, the one with the cherry-and-black ribbon across his shirt
is Connor! He’s Hammond’s crack distance runner. I--I hope he won’t
win!”
“So do I,” answered Mr. Kearney. “They’re off!”
The pistol broke sharply on the air and the field of eight runners
leaped forward.
“_Oh!_” breathed Harry. “It’s four times around, and I’m just sure I’ll
die before they finish!”
There’s nothing very spectacular about a mile race. It is rather a test
of endurance than of speed when compared to the middle distances and
sprints, and as the time for the distance is likely to be somewhere
around five minutes the pace is not fast enough to be inspiring to the
spectators. As the runners took the first corner they seemed rather to
be out for a gentle exercise jog than taking part in a race which, no
matter how it was won, would decide the fortunes of the day.
Ferry Hill had entered Dick Somes, Chase and Townsend. Warren had
intended to run, but at the last moment had funked it. For Hammond
there were Connor, Parish, White, Temple and Frothingham. Connor held
the Hammond record of 5 minutes 7⅗ seconds and Parish was credited with
something very close to that. The other wearers of the cherry-and-black
were unknown quantities. Dick had done the mile the year before in
about 5 minutes and 6 seconds, but so far this spring had not been
able to come within ten seconds of that time. Chase was still slower
and Townsend had absolutely no hope of being able to finish inside the
half-minute. But he was going to be useful.
At the beginning of the second lap he pushed to the front and took the
lead, none disputing it with him. For the next lap he set a hard pace.
Connor was running fifth, with Dick dogging him closely, stride for
stride. At half the distance Townsend drew aside, badly tuckered, and
the lead went to Temple of Hammond. By this time the eight runners were
strung out for fifty yards, with Temple, Parish, Chase, Connor and Dick
well together in the van. As they went by the stand on the beginning
of the third lap the cheering became frantic. As though in response,
Connor suddenly drew out and passed Chase. But Dick was close after
him, and at the turn they had settled down again. Temple gave the lead
to Parish and gradually dropped back. Then Chase began to lose and the
hearts of Ferry Hill’s supporters sank. It was Parish, Connor and Dick
now, with Temple and Chase fighting together yards behind. Then they
were crossing the line and the last lap had begun.
The voices of the judges announcing the fact were drowned in the shouts
of entreaty and encouragement that broke from the spectators.
“There’s only Dick left!” wailed Harry. “Chase is out of it entirely!
If Dick doesn’t win we’ll lose! Dick! Dick! Run! You’ve got to win,
Dick!”
But Harry’s frantic entreaty was lost in the babel of sound and the
runners took the turn, clinging closer to the inner rim of the cinder
track. Around the curve they went, Parish, Connor, Dick, one close
behind the other, heads up, elbows in, strides matched.
So far Dick had stood the strain well, but now the work was beginning
to tell on him. Breathing was getting difficult, his knees began to
feel a little bit uncertain and his head displayed a tendency to drop
back. He realized that to win better than second place was almost out
of the question. Both Connor and Parish were experienced runners, were
conducting the race according to some plan settled upon between them
and were not going to let their adversary pass if it was possible to
prevent it. And yet if Ferry Hill was to win the meet it was absolutely
necessary for him to reach the tape ahead of the others. If he came
in second and Chase, by good luck, came in fourth it would give them
four points, just enough to lose by one! So it was first place or
nothing--and Dick began to think it would be nothing.
He believed that somewhere on the back-stretch Parish would let
Connor by and at the same time try to block the enemy. Connor would
then hit up the pace, Parish would follow if he could and if not would
lag and make it necessary for Dick to run outside of him; and in the
last two hundred yards of the mile every effort, no matter how slight,
counts. The idea of risking all on a spurt, passing both opponents
and then trying to keep the lead to the tape occurred to him, but was
relinquished. He believed that he had enough strength left for a sprint
at the finish, but he doubted his ability to make the pace for the rest
of the distance.
The one encouraging thought that can come to one during a hard race
is that your opponent is probably just as tired and just as worried
as you are. And as Dick followed the others around the turn into the
back-stretch he made the most of that thought. If his own breath came
in scorching gasps from tired lungs so must that of Connor and Parish;
if his own legs ached, so must theirs; if he was at his wits’ end how
to get by them, they were at their wits’ end how to prevent him.
From across the field came the cheers of the watchers, but he was
scarcely aware of them. His whole mind was on the race, and he watched
Connor as a cat watches a mouse. For him the only sounds were the hard
breathing of the runners and the crunch of the cinders under foot. A
hundred yards behind, although he didn’t know it, Temple and Chase had
finished their battle and the former had won; Chase, with head thrown
back, was following gamely but hopelessly, already out of the race.
Yard by yard the back-stretch was conquered. The curve was already at
hand and still Dick’s opponents made no move. The three ran steadily
on, stride for stride. Perhaps they were waiting for him to try and
pass, hoping he would kill himself in a useless attempt to take the
lead. Well, he’d fool them! Then the wooden rim at his left began to
curve, and suddenly Connor had slipped from his place with a gasping
warning to Parish and had taken the lead. Dick went after him, but
as soon as he had drawn alongside of Parish that youth, watching for
him, quickly closed up behind Connor. Dick must either drop back to
third place again or run on the outside, covering more ground on the
turn than the enemy. Well, he was probably beaten anyway, and so he’d
stay where he was. Perhaps he could cheat Parish out of second place.
So around the turn they went, Connor hugging the pole in the lead,
Parish right behind him and Dick at his elbow. And now they were on the
home-stretch with the tape and the little knot of judges and timers
scarcely sixty yards away.
But what a distance sixty yards is when seventeen hundred have gone
before it! And what a deal may happen in that little stretch of cinder
path! The stand was almost deserted and the spectators were lined along
the track almost from the corner to a point beyond the finish, so that
the runners came on through a lane of gesticulating arms, waving flags
and caps and frantic noise.
Suddenly Connor’s head tipped back a little. Dick, watching, saw and
realized that the last struggle had begun. With a gasp for breath to
carry him on, he began his sprint at the same moment that Connor strove
to draw away. A dozen strides and Parish was no longer beside him. A
dozen more and he was almost even with the Hammond crack. But now his
breath threatened to go back on him utterly at every aching gasp and
his legs weighed hundreds of pounds. The hope of victory, born suddenly
back there by the turn, withered under the knowledge of defeat.
Then into his range of vision, standing sharply out against the
confusion of dark figures lining the track to the right, leaped a girl
in a white dress, a small, slim form with the reddest of hair and a
pale, entreating face. And in the moment that he saw her her hand shot
out toward him waving a little slip of white paper and beckoning him
on. And in the instant he remembered that there was more in this than
a victory over Hammond; that on his winning or losing depended the
success of the F. H. S. I. S.! To win meant a new dormitory for the
school; to lose--But he wasn’t going to lose now!
[Illustration: “‘And something else, too!’”]
Stride! Stride! Gasp! Gasp! He had an idea that Connor had vanished
into thin air; at least he was no longer at his elbow! Faces swept by
like strange blurs. The line was in front of him, half a dozen yards
away. He wondered why nobody spoke, why everything was so still; then
awoke to the knowledge that the shouting was deafening. Cries for
“Ferry Hill! Ferry Hill!” for “Hammond! Hammond!” rent the air. Another
stride--another--and then somebody got in his way and he couldn’t stop
and so tumbled over into somebody’s arms.
He had a dim idea that he was being dragged across the cinders. Then he
had no ideas at all for a minute. When he got a good, full hold on his
faculties again he opened his eyes to find Chub and Roy beside him. He
smiled weakly.
“Did I--win?” he gasped.
“Two yards to the good!” said Chub. “We’ve won the meet, Dick, by a
point: 66½ to 65½!”
“Yes,” cried another voice, “and something else, too! Look!”
Harry’s face, flushed, excited and radiant, bent over him as she held a
little slip of white paper before his eyes. Dick looked and read with
dizzy eyes:
COUNTY NATIONAL BANK OF NEW YORK CITY.
Pay to the order of Tom, Dick, and Harriet........
Twenty-nine Thousand Three Hundred and Sixty and 20/100
Dollars.
DAVID KEARNEY.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
--Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
--The author’s em-dash style has been retained.
End of Project Gutenberg's Tom, Dick and Harriet, by Ralph Henry Barbour