THE PENALTY FOR A FOUL
How it was managed Irving did not know, but on the morning of the day
when the fall handicap track games were held Scarborough lingered after
the Sixth Form Geometry class. Scarborough was president of the Athletic
Association.
"We want somebody to act as starter for the races this afternoon, Mr.
Upton," said Scarborough. "I wondered if you would help us out."
"I should be delighted," said Irving. "I've not had much experience--"
"Oh, it's easy enough; Mr. Barclay, I guess, can tell you all that has
to be done. Thank you very much."
It was quite as if Irving was the one who was conferring the favor; he
liked Scarborough for the way in which the boy had made the suggestion.
He always had liked him, for Scarborough had never given any trouble; he
seemed more mature than most of the boys, more mature even than Louis
Collingwood. He was not so popular, because he maintained a certain
dignity and reserve; even Westby seemed to stand somewhat in awe of
Scarborough. He was, as Irving understood, the best oarsman in the
school, captain of the school crew, besides being the crack shot-putter
and hammer-thrower; if he and Collingwood had together chosen to throw
their influence against a new master, life would indeed have been hard.
But Scarborough's attitude had been one of entire indifference; he would
stand by and smile sometimes when Westby was engaged in chaffing Irving,
and then, as if tired of it, he would turn his back and walk away.
Irving visited Barclay at his house during the noon recess, borrowed his
revolver, and received the last simple instructions.
"Make sure always that they're all properly 'set' before you fire. If
there's any fouling at the start, you can call them back and penalize
the fellow that fouled--a yard to five yards, according to your
discretion. But there's not likely to be any fouling; in most of the
events the fellows are pretty well separated by their handicaps."
"I'll be careful," said Irving. He inspected the revolver. "It's all
loaded?"
"Yes--and there are some blank cartridges. Now, you're all equipped. If
any questions come up--I'll be down at the field; I'm to be one of the
judges and you can call on me."
At luncheon Irving entered into the talk about the sports to come,
without giving any intimation as to the part which he was to play.
"They've given Heath only thirty yards over Lou Collingwood," complained
Westby.
"I thought Lou wasn't going to run, because of football; he hasn't been
practising," said Carroll.
"I know, but the Pythians have got hold of him, and Dennison's persuaded
him it's his duty to run. And I guess he's good enough without practice
to win from scratch--giving that handicap!"
"Is Dennison the captain of the Pythian track team?" asked Irving.
"Yes."
"And who's captain of yours--the Corinthians?"
"Ned Morrill."
"Morrill's going awfully fast in the quarter now," said Blake. "I timed
him yesterday."
"They've handicapped him pretty hard. And he's apt to be just a shade
late in starting--just as Dave Pratt is apt to be just a shade previous,"
said Westby. "It ought to be a close race between those two."
"How much does Pratt get over Morrill?"
"Five yards. And if he steals another yard on the start--"
"Dave wouldn't steal it," exclaimed Blake indignantly. "You Corinthians
would accuse a man of anything!"
"Oh, I don't mean that he'd do it intentionally," replied Westby. "But
he's so overanxious and eager always--and he's apt to get away without
realizing--without the starter realizing.--I wonder who's going to be
starter, by the way?"
Nobody knew; Irving did not enlighten them.
Westby bethought him to ask the same question of Scarborough half an
hour later, when they were dressing in the athletic house.
"Mr. Upton has consented to serve," said Scarborough gravely.
Westby thumped himself down on a bench, dangling one spiked running shoe
by the string.
"What! Kiddy!"
"The same," said Scarborough.
Westby said nothing more; he stooped and put on his shoe, and then he
rose and came over to Scarborough, who was untangling a knot. He passed
his hand over Scarborough's head and remarked wonderingly, "Feels
perfectly normal--strange--strange!"
Morrill came in from outside, clapping his hands. "Corinthians out for
the mile--Heath--Price--Bolton--Edwards--all ready?"
The four named answered by clumping on their spikes to the door.
A moment later came the Pythian call from Dennison; Collingwood and
Morse responded. The first event of the day was about to begin. Westby
leisurely brushed his hair, which had been disarranged in the process of
undressing; he was like a cat in respect of his hair and could not
endure to have it rumpled. When it was parted and plastered down to his
satisfaction, he slipped a dressing gown on over his running clothes and
went out of doors.
The fall track meet was not of the same importance as that in the
spring, which was a scratch event. But there were cups for prizes, and
there was always much rivalry between the two athletic clubs, the
Corinthians and Pythians, as to which could show the most winners. So
for that day the football players rested from their practice; many of
them in fact were entered in the sports--though, like Collingwood,
without any special preparation. The school turned out to look on and
cheer; when Westby left the athletic house, he saw the boys lined up on
the farther side of the track. The field was reserved for contestants
and officials; already many figures in trailing dressing gowns were
wandering over it, and off at one side three or four were having a
preliminary practice in putting the shot.
But most of those who were privileged to be on the field stood at the
farther side, where the start for the mile run was about to take place.
Westby saw Randolph and Irving kneeling by the track, measuring off the
handicap distances with a tape line; Barclay walked along it, and
summoned the different contestants to their places. By the time that
Westby had crossed the field, the six runners were at their stations;
there was an interval of a hundred and forty yards between Collingwood,
at scratch, and young Price of the Fourth Form.
Westby came up and stood near Irving, and fixed him with a whimsical
smile.
"Quite a new departure for you, isn't it, Mr. Upton?" he said.
"I thought I'd come down and see if you can run as fast as you can talk,
Westby." Irving drew out the revolver, somewhat ostentatiously.
"I hope you won't shoot any one with that; it looks to me as if you
ought to be careful how you handle it, sir."
"Thank you for the advice, Westby." Irving turned from the humorist, and
raised his voice. "All ready for the mile now! On your marks! Set!"
He held the pistol aloft and fired, and the six runners trotted away.
There is nothing very exciting about the start of a mile run, and Irving
felt that the intensity with which he had given the commands had been
rather absurd. It was annoying to think that Westby had been standing by
and finding perhaps in his nervousness a delectable subject for mockery
and derision.
Irving walked down the track towards the finish line. He found Barclay
there holding the watch.
"You seem to be discharging your arduous duties successfully," said
Barclay.
"Oh, so far." Irving looked up the track; the foremost runners were
rounding the curve at the end of their first lap. He had a moment's
longing to be one of them, stretching his legs like them, trying out his
strength and speed on the smooth cinder track against others as eager as
himself. He had never done anything of that kind; hardly until now had
he ever felt the desire. Why it should come upon him now so poignantly
he did not know; but on this warm October afternoon, when the air and
the sunshine were as soft as in early September, he wished that he might
be a boy again and do the things which as a boy he had never done. To be
still young and looking on at the sports and the strife of youth, sports
and strife in which he had never borne a part--there was something
humiliating and ignoble in the thought. If he could only be for the
moment the little Fourth Former there, Price--now flying on in the lead
yet casting many fearful backward glances!--Poor child, even Irving's
inexperienced eyes told him that he could never keep that pace.
"Go it, kid!" cried three or four older boys good-naturedly, as Price
panted by; and he threw back his head and came down more springily upon
his toes, trying in response to the cheer to display his best form.
After him came Bolton and Edwards, side by side; and Collingwood, who
started at scratch, had moved up a little on Morse and Heath. Heath was
considered the strongest runner in the event for the Corinthians, and
they urged him on with cries of "Heath! Heath!" as he made the turn.
"You've got 'em, Lou!" shouted a group of Pythians the next moment as
Collingwood passed. It was early in the race for any great demonstration
of excitement.
It was Price whom Irving watched with most sympathy. When he got round
on the farther side of the field, his pace had slackened perceptibly;
Bolton and Edwards passed him and kept on widening the distance; Morse
and Heath passed him at the next turn; and when he came down to the turn
in front of the crowd, running heavily, Collingwood overhauled and
passed him. It was rather an unfeeling thing for Collingwood to do,
right there in front of the crowd, but he was driven to it by force of
circumstances; the four other runners were holding on in a way he did
not like. The cries of encouragement to him and to Heath were more
urgent this time; Bolton and Edwards and Morse had their supporters too.
Westby ran along the field beside Price, and Irving felt a moment's
indignation; was Westby taunting the plucky and exhausted small boy? And
then Irving saw that he was not, and at the same instant Barclay turned
to him and said,--
"Price is Westby's young cousin."
Irving stood near enough to hear Westby say, "Good work, Tom; you set
the pace just right; it'll kill Collingwood. Now drop out."
Price shook his head and kept on; Westby trotted beside him, saying
anxiously, "There's no use in your wearing yourself all out." But Price
continued at his determined, pounding trot.
"He's a plucky kid," said Barclay.
"Rather nice of Westby to take such an interest," said Irving.
Barclay nodded. From that point on it became a close and interesting
race, yet every now and then Irving's eyes strayed to the small figure
toiling farther and farther to the rear--but always toiling. Westby stood
on the edge of the green oval, not far away, and when on the third lap
Heath came by in the lead, ran with him a few moments and shouted advice
and encouragement in his ear; he had to shout, for all the Corinthians
were shouting for Heath now, and the Pythians were shouting just as
loudly for Collingwood, who, pocketed by the two other Corinthians,
Bolton and Edwards, was running fifteen yards behind. Morse, the only
Pythian to support Collingwood, was hopelessly out of it.
Westby left Heath and turned his eyes backward. His cousin came to the
turn, white-faced, and mouth hanging open; the crowd clapped the boy.
"Quit it, Tom!" cried Westby. "Quit it; there's no sense--" but Price
went pounding on. Westby stood looking after him with a worried frown,
and then because there was a sudden shout, he turned to look at the
others.
There, on the farther side of the field, Collingwood had at last
extricated himself from the pocket; he was running abreast of Bolton;
Edwards had fallen behind. Heath was spurting; Collingwood passed
Bolton, but in doing so did not lessen Heath's lead--a lead of fully
fifteen yards. So they came to the last turn, to the long straight-away
home-stretch; and the crowd clustered by the finish broke and ran up
alongside the track to meet them. Every one was yelling wildly--one name
or another--"Corinthian!" "Pythian!" "Heath!" "Collingwood!"
Barclay ran across the track with one end of the tape,--the finish line;
Mr. Randolph held the other. "Collingwood! Collingwood!" rose the shout;
Irving, standing on tiptoe, saw that Collingwood was gaining, saw that
at last he and Heath were running side by side; they held together while
the crowd ran with them shouting. Irving pressed closer to the track;
Westby in his dressing gown was jumping up and down beside him, waving
his arms; Irving had to crane his neck and peer, in order to see beyond
those loose flapping sleeves. He saw the light-haired Collingwood and
the black-haired Heath, coming down with their heads back and their
teeth bared and clenched; they were only fifteen yards away. And then
Collingwood leaped ahead; it was as if he had unloosed some latent and
unconquerable spring, which hurled him in a final burst of speed across
the tape and into half a dozen welcoming arms. Heath stumbled after him,
even more in need of such friendly services; but both of them revived
very quickly when Mr. Barclay, rushing into the crowd with the watch,
cried, "Within eight seconds of the record! Both of you fellows will
break it next June."
The other runners came gasping in--and Price was still toiling away in
the rear. He had been half a lap behind; he came now into the
home-stretch; the crowd began to laugh, and then more kindly, as he drew
nearer, to applaud. They clapped and called, "Good work, Price!" Westby
met him about fifty yards from the finish and ran with him, saying,
"You've got to stick it out now, Tom; you can't drop out now; you're all
right, old boy--lots of steam in your boiler--you'll break a record yet."
Irving caught some of the speeches. And so Westby was there when Price
crossed the line and collapsed in a heap on the track.
It was not for long; they brought him to with water, and Westby knelt by
him fanning his face with the skirt of his dressing gown. Barclay picked
the boy up. "Oh, I'm all right, sir," said Price, and he insisted on
being allowed to walk to the athletic house alone,--which he did rather
shakily.
Westby flirted the cinders from the skirt of his dressing gown. "Blamed
little fool," he remarked to Carroll and to Allison, who stood by.
"Wouldn't his mother give me the dickens, though, for letting him do
that!" But Irving, who heard, knew there was a ring of pride in Westby's
voice--as if Westby felt that his cousin was a credit to the family. And
Irving thought he was.
The sports went on; not many of the runs were as exciting as that with
which the afternoon had opened. Irving passed back and forth across the
field, helped measure distances for the handicaps, and tried to be
useful. His interest had certainly been awakened. Twice in college he
had sat on the "bleachers" and viewed indifferently the track contests
between Yale and Harvard; he had had a patriotic desire to see his own
college win, but he had been indifferent to the performance of the
individuals. They had not been individuals to him--merely strange figures
performing in an arena. But here, where he knew the boys and walked
about among them, and saw the different manifestations of nervousness
and excitement, and watched the muscles in their slim legs and arms, he
became himself eager and sympathetic. He stood by when Scarborough went
on putting the shot after beating all the other competitors--went on
putting it in an attempt to break the School record. Unconsciously
Irving pressed forward to see him as he prepared for the third and last
try; unconsciously he stood with lips parted and eyes shining,
fascinated by the huge muscles that rose in Scarborough's brown arm as
he poised the weight at his shoulder and heaved it tentatively. And when
it was announced that the effort had fallen short by only a few inches,
Irving's sigh of disappointment went up with that of the boys.
At intervals the races were run off--the two-twenty, the quarter-mile,
the half-mile, the high hurdles, the low hurdles. Irving started them
all without any mishap. The last one, the low hurdles for two hundred
and twenty yards, was exciting; the runners were all well matched and
the handicaps were small. And so, after firing the revolver, Irving
started and ran across the field as hard as he could, to be at the
finish; he arrived in time, and stood, still holding the revolver in his
hand, while Morrill and Flack and Mason raced side by side to the tape.
They finished in that order, not more than a yard apart; and Irving
rammed his revolver into his pocket and clapped his hands and cheered
with the Corinthians.
The Pythians were now two points ahead, and there remained only one
event, the hundred yards. First place counted five points and second
place two; in these games third place did not count. So if a Corinthian
should win the hundred yards, the Corinthians would be victorious in the
meet by one point.
There were eight entries in the hundred yards--a large number to run
without interfering with one another. But the track was wide, and two of
the boys had handicaps of ten yards, one had five yards, and one had
three. So they were spread out pretty well at the start, and
consequently the danger of interference was minimized.
The runners threw off their dressing gowns and took their places. Drake,
Flack, Westby, and Mason lined up at scratch,--Westby having drawn the
inside place and being flanked by the two Pythians. There was a moment's
pawing of the cinders, and settling down firmly on the spikes.
"Ready, everybody!" cried Irving. He drew the revolver from his pocket
and held it aloft. He was as excited as any of the runners; there was
the nervous thrill in his voice. "On your marks!" They put their hands
to the ground; he ran his eyes along them to see that all were placed.
"Set!" There was the instant stiffening of muscles. Then from the
revolver came a click. Irving had emptied the six chambers in starting
the other races, and had forgotten to reload.
"Just a moment, fellows; ease off!" he called, and they all straightened
up and faced towards him questioningly. "Just till I slip in a
cartridge," Irving explained with embarrassment.
Westby turned on him a delighted grin, and said,--
"Can I be of any assistance, Mr. Upton?"
"No, thank you," said Irving, and having slipped in one cartridge, he
began filling the other chambers of the revolver.
"It takes only one shot to start," observed Westby.
"Yes," said Irving. "If I fire a second, it will be to call you back
because of a false start.--Now then,--all ready once more. On your marks!"
They crouched. "Set!" He fired.
Somehow in the start Westby's foot slipped, and in trying to get clear
he lunged against Flack. Irving saw it and instantly fired a second
shot, and shouted, "Come back, come back!" The runners heeded the signal
and the shout, but as they tiptoed up the track, they looked irritated.
"Westby, you fouled Flack." Irving spoke with some asperity. "I shall
have to set you back a yard."
"It was an accident," Westby replied warmly. "My foot slipped. I
couldn't help myself."
"But it was a foul," declared Irving, "and I shall have to set you back
a yard."
"It was an accident, I tell you," repeated Westby.
"If it was an accident, you oughtn't to set him back," said Drake, his
fellow Corinthian.
"It's in the starter's discretion," spoke up Mason, the Pythian.
"The penalty's a yard," affirmed Irving.
Westby shut his lips tight and looked angrily contemptuous. Irving
measured the distance. "There," he said, "you will start there."
Westby took the place behind the others without a word.
"Ready now! On your marks!"
The pistol cracked, and this time they all got away safely, and Irving
raced after them over the grass.
From the crowd at the finish came the instant shout of names; out of the
short choppy cries two names especially emerged, "Flack! Flack! Flack!"
"Westby! Westby! Westby!" Those two were the favorites for the event.
Irving saw the scratch men forge ahead, and mingle with the handicap
runners; in the confusion of flying white figures he could not see who
were leading. But the tumult near the finish grew wild; arms and caps
were swung aloft, boys were leaping up and down; the red-haired Dennison
ran along the edge of the track, waving his arms; Morrill on the other
side did the same thing; the next moment the race had ended in a
tumultuous rush of shouting boys.
[Illustration: AS TO WHO HAD WON, IRVING HAD NOT THE SLIGHTEST IDEA]
As to who had won, Irving had not the slightest idea. He was hastening
up to find out--hoping that it had been Westby. And then out from the
crowd burst Westby and rushed towards him, panting, flushed, hot-eyed,
attended by Morrill and half a dozen other Corinthians.
"I hope you're satisfied with your spite-work," said Westby. His voice
shook with passion, his eyes blazed; never before had Irving seen him
when he had so lost control of himself. "You lost me that race--by half a
yard! I hope you're pleased with yourself!"
He surveyed Irving scornfully, breathing hard, then turned his back and
strode off to the athletic house.