THE RACE.
Most of the forenoon, every day except Sunday, Merriwell, Clancy, and
Ballard had to give up to the “grind.” Professor Phineas Borrodaile
rigidly insisted on certain hours for study and recitation, and would
not temper his discipline even on the day that notable race was to be
run between Lenning and Darrel.
Following breakfast, each camp continued to flock by itself. The live
stock belonging to each party was picketed in widely separated grazing
grounds, so there was no opportunity for Silva and the other packer
to wind up their disagreements in a final clash. Peace hovered over
the region adjacent to Tinaja Wells, but to Merry it suggested a calm
preceding a storm.
Hawkins buried himself among the Gold Hillers, and seemed very careful
not to overstep the “dead line” which had been drawn between the two
camps. Colonel Hawtrey also appeared content to remain in seclusion
among the members of his own party.
About eleven o’clock in the forenoon, Frank and his chums, and the
professor and Darrel overheard a brief address which the old soldier
was making to the young athletes of the Gold Hill club. Only scraps of
the colonel’s little speech floated to the fellows in the Ophir tent,
but what they overheard made a deep impression on them.
“Sports of the right kind, properly indulged in, are of vastly more
benefit to the upbuilding of character, my young friends, than to your
muscles and bodily endurance. Understand me, I do not say that physical
development is of less importance than mental development. Both of
these should proceed hand in hand; but if, over all, the moral and
manly qualities do not grow as they should, all your training in the
class and on the track and field will have been in vain. Try, my lads,
to develop the faculty of being good losers, and to admire and applaud
in others those abilities, natural or acquired, which you possess, but
not in the same degree.”
As these words, spoken in a deep and earnest voice, wafted themselves
from the rival camp, the professor softly clapped his hands.
“Noble sentiments most nobly expressed, young gentlemen,” he murmured.
“This Colonel Hawtrey must surely be a man of splendid character.”
“He is,” said Darrel, in a low voice. “The colonel is one of the finest
men that ever lived.”
“Listen!” whispered the professor.
Again the colonel’s words drifted into the rival camp:
“If an amateur athlete is not a true sportsman, which is but another
term for gentleman, he is not fit to compete with other true sportsmen.
Your real gentleman, if you please, has courage; but, more than
that, he is so imbued with the spirit of fair play and so completely
captain of his own soul, that the stings of honorable defeat leave him
unscathed.”
These were fine words, and well calculated to inspire a spirit of high
emprise.
“I hope Jode is taking that in,” whispered Darrel to Merriwell; “but,
I’ll gamble my spurs, he’s going to beat the pistol, just the same.”
Ballard, all that morning, had been preoccupied to an extent that had
drawn some criticism from the professor. The interesting events of the
night, which he had not only kept a secret himself but had likewise
warned Fritz to keep in the background, probably had a good deal to do
with his poor showing at the problems put up to him by Borrodaile.
At eleven-thirty, when the studious ones were allowed a breathing
spell before dinner, Ballard hooked onto Merriwell and led him to a
secluded place for a talk. Fritz had to call them three times to “grub
pile,” and when the two finally arrived, their faces were flushed with
excitement, and there was an air about them that suggested mysterious
things.
At two-thirty in the afternoon a general movement set in toward the
mesa. Both camps emptied themselves upon the little plateau, so that
nearly forty spectators assembled to watch the race between Darrel and
Lenning.
The course had already been marked off by Brad, Spink, and Handy.
Beman, for Lenning, had looked it over and pronounced it O. K. On one
side of this course the Gold Hill men were grouped, and on the other
side the fellows from Ophir.
Colonel Hawtrey and Hawkins stood together, and Merriwell, for the
first time, got a good look at the colonel. He was much impressed with
his soldierly bearing, but in his face could be read sternness and
determination—and a sadness which did not, in the least, diminish the
more Spartan qualities.
Bleeker, of Gold Hill, crossed the course and stepped up to Merriwell.
“There ought to be a judge and a starter, I reckon,” said he. “I don’t
see any need of makin’ this event top-heavy with officials. Do you?”
“Not at all,” Frank answered. “I’d suggest that Colonel Hawtrey act as
judge of the race.”
“He says he won’t have a thing to do with it.”
“Then how about Hawkins, the deputy sheriff?”
“Suits Lenning to a t, y, ty. Lenning would like to have Beman for
starter.”
Merriwell was expecting this, and yet it came to him with something
like surprise. It pointed to crookedness on the part of Lenning—and
after that fine talk the colonel had given his fellows that morning,
too!
“Let Beman act as starter, then,” assented Frank, keeping to the plan
broached by Darrel.
Bleeker hurried away to inform Hawkins and Beman of the work laid out
for them; and a few minutes later Darrel and Lenning, in sprinting
costumes, came trotting up from the camp.
Merriwell watched Darrel and the colonel. As the old soldier fixed his
eyes on his discredited nephew, a queer play of emotions showed in his
face. In Darrel’s look was a wistfulness and affection which caused his
uncle to turn abruptly and gaze in another direction.
Beman, a round-shouldered, lanky chap, stepped out back of the starting
line, pistol in hand.
“All ready, you two?” he called.
Darrel and Lenning answered by stepping to the line. Not a sound of
approval or disapproval went up from the gathered throng. Silence
reigned on the mesa.
“This is about as cheerful as a funeral procession, Chip,” muttered
Clancy.
“Everybody’s mightily interested in the race, for all they have bottled
up their feelings,” Merriwell answered.
“Maybe,” was the skeptical response, “but it takes a lot of rooters to
stir up the enthusiasm. This looks about as sporty as the track event
of a deaf-and-dumb school. That Lenning carries himself well. He walks
with a spring that leads you to think he ‘feels his feet.’ But I don’t
like the cut of his jib a little bit.”
“Nor I. His eyes are shifty, and his face doesn’t inspire much
confidence.”
“The old colonel is about as hilarious as he would be trying to hunt
up a nephew in the morgue. Whoo! I’ll go dippy in a minute if somebody
doesn’t yell. Guess I’ll tear off a whoop myself.”
He suited his action to the word, but it was a melancholy effort. No
one joined in with him, not even Merry or Ballard. From across the
course, the Gold Hillers gave him a startled look of disapproval.
“Once will do, thanks,” muttered Clancy. “I’m frosted so badly I’ve got
chilblains. Why doesn’t that starter set ’em off?”
The words were hardly out of Clancy’s mouth before Beman shouted: “On
your mark!”
Both sprinters dropped in well-nigh perfect style.
“Set!”
With that word, and the tense preparations of the sprinters for the
start, Merry and Brad began watching Lenning keenly. Merry ticked off
the seconds in his mind—one, two, three—and then intuitively he sensed
the forward plunge of Lenning, coming a fraction of a second before the
crack of the pistol. Lenning had not waited to hear the pistol, and had
got away at the explosion.
“He did it, by thunder!” whispered Brad. “Darrel had the skunk dead to
rights. Eh, Chip?”
“No doubt about it, Brad!”
Further talk just then was out of the question. The first stride of the
race had taken Lenning into the lead, and Darrel, waiting honorably for
the signal to start, was rushing to overhaul his competitor.
“Dig, you kid from Nowhere!” whooped Clancy. “The race isn’t done till
you breast the tape.”
“Go to it, Darrel!” Merriwell shouted. “You’ll pass him at the
eighty-yard line!”
“Wow!” yelped Ballard; “I’ll bet the boy from Nowhere gets Somewhere
before he’s many seconds older.”
A murmur went up from the Gold Hill side of the course. The peculiar
form in which Darrel was racing was recognized. Various little
mannerisms connected with his sprinting were recalled. They were all
here, in this clean-cut athlete whom Lenning had declared an impostor!
Gold Hill sentiments, it was plain, were undergoing a change.
Not the least interested observer in the Gold Hill crowd was the
colonel. He leaned forward, the joy of wholesome sport temporarily
brushing aside the sterner proceedings which were to wait upon the
finish of that hundred-yard dash. The object of that race—the “boy
from Nowhere’s” attempt to prove his identity—did not concern Colonel
Hawtrey. He knew Lenning’s competitor was Ellis Darrel, race or no
race. What flamed up in him, as he gazed spellbound, was a pure love of
track athletics, aroused by a contest that was superb.
In about four seconds after the start the Gold Hillers had loosened up.
There were cries of, “Go it, Darrel!” and, “This looks like old times,
Curly!” which proved that Darrel was already winning the recognition he
coveted, no matter whether he won or lost the dash.
At the eighty-yard line, just as Merry had prophesied, Darrel drew
ahead of Lenning. The latter called on his reserve powers for a final
spurt, but Darrel also had speed in reserve. In ten seconds, or a
trifle more or less, Darrel tore away the tape at the finish, a full
stride in the lead.
A roar went up from all sides. The enthusiasm, which had been held in
check, rushed forth like a tidal wave. A rush was made toward Darrel,
but Hawkins, the deputy sheriff, grim and relentless, waved the throng
back. Stepping to the side of the victor, he dropped an official hand
on his shoulder.
“Youngster,” said he crisply, “I’m sorry a heap to come down hard on
you at a time like this, but you’re under arrest.”
“Arrest?” echoed Darrel, recoiling. “For what?”
“For openin’ your uncle’s safe an’ stealin’ a thousand in cold cash.
Don’t make a fuss, bec’us’ it won’t do you any good.”
Then, amid the dead hush that fell over the mesa, Darrel’s eyes sought
only one face in all the crowd surrounding him. And that face was
Merriwell’s!