THE MATCH AT QUEEN'S CLUB.
"Sorry," said Butler, "I couldn't land you where I promised, but this
motor has played hob with me. She's been acting badly for a week."
A score of people came running up. "Hurt, hurt?" they cried.
"Hurt? no!" said Frank, "only disappointed. We were heading for
Hendon. How far is it to Queen's Club grounds?"
"'Bout five miles," volunteered someone.
"Is there a taxicab place about here anywhere?" inquired Frank. "I've
got to get to Queen's Club on the double quick." He looked at his
watch. It showed three minutes of two. The games were about to begin!
"Butler, excuse me if I leave you," cried Frank.
"Go to it, boy," said Butler, "and the Lord bless you."
Heading in the direction of a taxicab stand, Frank started off on
a sharp trot, but was doomed to disappointment as not a taxi was
available at that moment, and the man in the little office wasn't
hopeful that any would be back right away. "They may come any minute,
and there may not be a blooming one for half an hour. If you'll take
the 'bus on the next street, it will take you within half a mile of
Queen's Club grounds."
Scarcely waiting to hear the last words, Frank darted for the street
mentioned, and, after a wait of five minutes, boarded an electric
'bus bound for West Kensington. Fortunately, he found a seat-mate who
was well acquainted with what was going on at Queen's Club that day.
"Going to see the games, I suppose," he said. From him Frank learned
that a short cut could be made which would be of considerable help
as a time-reducer. Fixing the direction in his mind, he sprang from
the 'bus at the street indicated, and started on a run in the general
direction of the Club.
As he ran, the last instructions of Trainer Black came to his mind:
"Take it easy till the games, and keep off your feet." He could not
suppress a grim smile as he pounded along, running flat-footed to
keep as much spring as possible in his toes if he ever reached the
track and if he was in time when he did reach there. Always he kept
an eye out for a taxi, but fate was against him and he saw none
excepting those with fares seated therein, and whirling along on
their own business.
Losing his way, finding it again with the help of passers-by, and
nearly but not quite despairing of there ever having been such a
place in London as the Queen's Club, he was halted by a college
yell, sharp and incisive, delivered comparatively near. Getting his
bearings from the direction in which the yell came, he dashed through
a short street and stood before the main gate of the Club.
"Is it over?" he panted to the officer at the gate. "The meet--is it
over?"
"Who are you?" asked the officer, staring at the newcomer, whose
eyes, fierce in their intensity, looked out from a face streaked with
sweat and dirt.
"I'm one of the competitors," gasped Frank.
"Ho, ho!" laughed the officer, "you look it. Did you run all the way
from New York?"
"I _am one of the competitors_," said Frank, emphasizing every word,
"and through an accident got left at Brighton. Please let me go to
the training quarters of the American team."
"Well, 'ere's a rum cove. Comes up 'ere and wants to get passed into
the gymes for nothink."
For a few minutes it looked as if, after all his trouble to get to
the Club grounds, he was to be held up outside while his chance was
lost. Finally, however, he induced the officer to send a messenger to
the American quarters, and in half a minute he was snatched through
the gate by an assistant trainer and stood in the presence of Captain
Harrington, who was just going out for his quarter.
The captain looked him over with cold, hard eyes. "You're a little
late," he said. "We don't bring men across the Atlantic to have them
late for the beginning of a track meet. You are no value to us. We
will not need you."
Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Harrington interrupted sharply
with "I don't want to hear excuses," and passed on to the start of
his event. Frank did not have the heart even to look at the race
which was slated to go to the Americans through the superior ability
of the Yale captain. Trainer Black looked up when he entered the
building, but said nothing. Frank felt as if he had been thrown into
outer darkness. He ground his teeth in impotent rage and dropped into
a chair, listening in a half-hearted way to the little volley of
spontaneous cheering which drifted through the window.
"What's that?" cried Trainer Black, and dashed out the door. "Sounds
like an English cheer!"
An English cheer it was, and it announced the victory of a Cambridge
"dark horse" who had run the Yale quarter-mile champion off his feet
in the stretch. A minute later Harrington staggered into the room,
and threw himself face downward on a table.
"This loses us the meet," said a rubber in a whisper. "To think that
Harrington should lose out, of all people. He loafed too much in the
first part of the race and couldn't hold the sprint at the end. It
was a foxy trick the Englishman worked, but a fair win enough."
"Where's Armstrong, where's Armstrong?" came the excited call by
Trainer Black.
Frank stood up. "Here," he said simply.
"Get into your clothes," Black shouted. "Why are you sitting there
like a dummy? Here, some of you fellows help him. Patsy, rub his leg
muscles a bit--Jack, help Patsy. Move lively!"
Frank tore off his clothes, and in half a minute his leg muscles
were being slapped and kneaded by the two rubbers as if their life
depended on doing a quick and thorough job.
"It's like this," said Black, coming over to the rubbing table.
"Everything went about as scheduled until Harrington fell down in his
quarter. That leaves us short an event we counted on."
"Did we get the shot?"
"No, confound it, that Rhodes scholar from Dakota beat our man out on
the last try."
"So the Englishmen have now two more than we calculated?"
"Exactly, and there isn't a ghost of a chance of their losing the
two-mile run unless their men choke."
"And the broad-jump?" inquired Frank, weakly.
"You've got to win that!" Black said it as if it was by no means an
unusual request.
"Win it?" gasped Frank. "What has Vare done?"
"Took only three jumps the last of which was twenty-three feet,
and hasn't jumped again. McGregor's been dragging his tries along,
hoping that you would turn up, but he hasn't been able to do better
than twenty-two six. Armstrong, if you can turn the trick on Vare it
will give us the meet. You've got to do it!" he added vehemently.
Frank rolled from the rubbing table, slipped into his scanty track
suit, and, with the Yale manager, trotted quickly to the field. "I
suppose you are in good shape," suggested the manager hopefully.
"Were you resting and keeping off your feet?"
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Frank could hardly
restrain a grin. "Keeping off my feet!" he thought. "If they knew
what I've been through to get here! Guess I'm all right," he said
aloud.
McGregor greeted Frank enthusiastically. "Where in the name of Billy
Patterson have you been?" and then, without waiting for an answer:
"This Vare is a grasshopper. He has this event cinched, you and I are
only ornaments, not real jumpers at all, and the Johnny Bulls have
decided they've licked the Yankees for once in their lives--look!
they're beginning to go!" Then to Frank: "For pity's sake, let out a
link and make a good showing. I'm tied to the ground with a bag of
lead in each heel."
Frank did not need any urging. The complacent attitude of the
Englishmen, who were beginning to file out in groups of three or
four, their faces showing the satisfaction of sure victory, added to
his determination. He had made a desperate struggle to be where he
was now, and he was not going to let it end there.
Measuring off the runway with more than ordinary care, Vare set his
marks, and, after two or three practice runs, loped down the runway
and made his first leap.
"Twenty-two feet, four inches," sang out the measurer.
Vare had walked to the jumping pit. A flicker of a smile crossed his
face, he nodded cheerfully to his Cambridge jumping mate, and picking
up his jersey swung it across his shoulder, and, without another look
at the Americans, turned his face to the track house.
"His Lordship Vare de Vare has published to the world that it's all
over, Frank," said McGregor. "I'd give a good right leg if I could
beat him, he's so mighty superior. But I've only got one more jump,
and it's not in me. If you don't want to see my poor busted heart
cluttering up this field, go after him."
"It's now or never," said Frank to himself as he walked slowly down
the runway. "What was it Princewell said--think high when you hit the
take-off--think high---- I'll think a mile high if it will help!"
In spite of the difficulties he had undergone in getting to the Club,
he was keyed to such a state of nervous excitement that he felt as
if he were walking on air. The hard incidents of the morning were
forgotten, the thrilling ride in the air machine, the abrupt landing,
the killing run through torrid streets, the frigid reception of
his captain. Now, with his opportunity at hand he became cool and
calculating. He had a splendid reserve of strength to call upon, and
he would call it to the last ounce.
Down the runway came Armstrong like a flash, first slowly, then with
a great burst of speed. His eye was fixed on the take-off block,
but his mind was on that four-foot hurdle supposed to be six feet
out there in the pit. He struck the block perfectly and, with hands
thrown high in the air and feet drawn up to clear the imaginary
hurdle, he sailed up and forward, struck at last in the pit and held
his full distance.
With a shout McGregor, recognizing a good jump, sprang from the
bench and ran forward to the jumping pit from which Frank was just
stepping, brushing away the loam that clung to his ankles.
"Twenty-three feet, even," the announcer bawled.
Coming so unexpectedly, the announcement for a moment fell on deaf
ears. Then, as the full significance became apparent, the Americans
in the stand set up a piercing and spontaneous yell which startled
and turned back the crowd already moving in larger and larger numbers
in the direction of the gate.
"Y-e-a-a-a--Armstrong!" yelled McGregor in a frenzy of delight, and
fell upon that individual like a long lost brother, beat him upon the
back and capered about like a man bereft of his senses. "It means
that old Claude Vare de Vare, Lord of Creation and Elsewhere, has got
to come back and do it over again! We have a chance! Oh, Armstrong,
it means we have a chance!"
Interest in the stand immediately became intense. People who were
leaving returned to their seats.
"A ripping jump!" commented an Englishman as he reseated himself,
"but Vare will take his measure." Vare had been sent for, and was
even now walking calmly across the track with an attitude which said
plainly: "What's all this fuss about anyway? We'll settle this now
once and for all."
A ripple of applause and hand-clapping ran through the stands as Vare
turned to face the pit at the far end of the runway, and glanced down
the narrow way now hedged with faces. He was a champion of champions,
and would show them how a champion jumped. But not that time, for his
best effort fell under twenty-three feet.
Surprised at his poor jump, he lost his composure and, against the
advice of his friends, took a second jump without rest, and that,
too, fell below his jump of twenty-three feet.
The news that Armstrong had equaled Vare's best jump spread to the
locker rooms of the two teams, and excitement ran high. What had
seemed like an event lost for a certainty to the Americans, had in a
moment been turned into a possibility.
McGregor had taken his last jump without changing the situation in
any way. Thereafter he devoted himself to encouraging Armstrong,
whose magnificent leap had raised the hopes of the whole American
contingent. "You have him now, Frank," McGregor whispered as, with
arm over Frank's shoulder, the two walked down the runway. "He let
himself get cold, and I'll bet he can't reach twenty-three feet
again."
But McGregor was mistaken. Vare, the champion, after he had had
more life rubbed into his muscles, shot down the runway and cleared
twenty-three feet, one inch and a half. A little scattering cheer
from the Englishmen, and Vare sat down on the jumpers' bench, his
face showing the relief he felt. "I'm all right now," he said to an
anxious, inquiring teammate, "but I felt jolly well frozen those
first two jumps, though."
"The meet," bawled the announcer, facing the grand stand, "now stands
six events for America and six for England, with the broad-jump
still to be decided. Vare, of Oxford, has the longest jump to his
credit--twenty-three feet, one and a half inches, which he made
in breaking the tie created by Armstrong, of Yale, with a jump of
twenty-three feet, which is _his_ best at present."
At this moment Captain Harrington came onto the track in street
clothes. He walked up to Frank: "Armstrong," he said, "Jack told
me all about your troubles getting here. I want to tell you you
made a game fight to correct the original mistake. I know you were
personally not at fault. Here's my hand on it!"
Frank took the proffered hand. His captain had taken him back into
the fold, and his heart swelled almost to the bursting point with
sudden joy. If Frank needed anything to make him unbeatable that
afternoon, the thing had come to pass. "I'll try to justify your
faith in me," was all he said, but his eyes shone with a new light.
Coming down the runway with a surpassing rush of speed, he hit the
take-off perfectly on his next trial, and soared into the air.
Spectators, who saw him, said afterward that he seemed to take a
step at the highest point of his flight, but it was only the first
appearance of the famous "scissors hitch" used by other great jumpers
before him, and which he had simply happened on, in his endeavor
to get great distance. He struck squarely on his feet in almost a
sitting posture, but his impetus carried him forward so powerfully
that he pitched head-first into the soft loam of the pit. He held
every inch of his great jump, however.
For it was a great jump. That could be seen by anyone, and the
officials and trackmen gathered around while a careful measurement
was taken. The serene Vare was sufficiently stirred himself to crowd
close to the pit.
"What is it, what is it?" snapped Harrington who could hardly await
the rather deliberate speech of the man at the end of the steel tape,
who was taking his time to make certain.
"Twenty-three feet, four inches!"
The cheer of the small group of men on the track itself was taken as
a good omen by the Americans in the stand, and these latter at once
delivered themselves of a full-grown yell, which echoed back from the
brick dwellings which surround the field.
"Twenty-three feet, four inches!" came the announcement, bawled to
all sides of the field through the megaphone, and again the American
yells broke out.
In the storm of cheering which Frank's great jump had elicited,
Vare was seen to rise to his feet and walk slowly to the start of
the runway. Two of his teammates went with him, and at each of his
important marks he stopped and scrutinized them carefully as if he
was not sure in his own mind that they were just right. Twice he
tried the full runway from the start to the take-off block, making
new marks for his guidance.
And now, being quite ready, he made his first of the three tries
allotted to him. On the first he cleared twenty-three feet, two
inches, and on the second bettered this mark by half an inch.
"Only an inch and a half behind you, Armstrong," said McGregor, in a
nervous staccato, "but I'll eat my shoes, spikes and all, if he can
equal that one of yours."
"If he does," said Frank, "it's all over, I'm afraid. How I came to
get that far out is more than I can understand. It's a dream, don't
wake me!"
Silence settled over the crowd as Vare faced the pit for his last
trial. His face was drawn and white. Now he moves forward, crouching
a little, with chin out and jaws tightly clenched. The loping run
develops at half distance into a sweeping rush, the Englishman hits
the take-off squarely, and leaps with every ounce of energy in his
body--up, up, out, out, he goes, while the spectators at the track
side hold their breaths. Now he has reached the full height of his
jump, and is coming down. Will his drive carry him far enough to win?
He is down in the pit, topped over by the impetus of his rush, but
the jump is clean, and the measurers are at work.
Carefully the tape is placed, carefully it is read, and then----
"Twenty-three feet, three and one-quarter inches," comes the
announcement.
The Americans go mad now indeed, for the meet is won, since the
Oxford champion has failed to equal Armstrong's magnificent jump by
three-quarters of an inch, not much, it is true, but enough to make
the difference between victory and defeat.
Just as the jubilation was at its height, a dusty, grimy youth, in
what were once white flannels, rushed through the gate, and threw
himself on Frank as the latter was being escorted like a young prince
of the blood to the club house.
"I knew you would do it, you old lobster," cried the newcomer, who
was none other than Codfish Gleason. "Sorry I couldn't get in at the
death, but I was arrested three times for moving too fast for these
Johnnies, and paid a five-pound fine every time. I couldn't have gone
much further for my money was running short."
To say that Frank Armstrong was the hero of the occasion is to tell
only a part of the truth. The youngest man on either team had
achieved the greatest glory, and his teammates were not slow in
acknowledging the fact. At the dinner that night in London, given to
members of the four teams, Frank was called on to make a speech, and
it was the shortest on record: "I did the best I could," after which
he sat down covered with confusion, amid loud applause.
The next day came the sight-seeing in London and some of the nearby
towns, and then a generous and thankful management stood the expense
of a trip for the American winners to Amsterdam, to Cologne, to
Lausanne, where the song-birds of the party serenaded the girls'
school there, and then to Paris, with many side trips. But, in spite
of the beauties and wonders of the strange countries, Frank said
afterward that the best sight of all was the shores of Long Island
viewed from the deck of the homing Cunarder.