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--A Table of Contents has been added by the transcriber for the
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--Remaining transcriber's notes are at the end of the text.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WITH FLYING FEET 1
II. THE DEADLY RATTLER 14
III. A RUN FOR LIFE 26
IV. A DESPERATE STRUGGLE 38
V. THE FLOATING RACE-TRACK 48
VI. OFF FOR THE FIGHT 57
VII. THE FIRST MARATHON 68
VIII. IN THE LINER'S PATH 80
IX. MAN OVERBOARD! 92
X. CROOKED WORK 105
XI. A MONSTER PERIL 114
XII. THE OCEAN'S PREY 129
XIII. A HUSKY ANTAGONIST 146
XIV. A FEARFUL AWAKENING 159
XV. THE DYNAMITE SHIP 172
XVI. THE STARRY BANNER 185
XVII. A GLORIOUS VICTORY 195
BERT WILSON,
Marathon Winner
BY
J. W. DUFFIELD
AUTHOR OF "BERT WILSON AT THE WHEEL,"
"BERT WILSON WIRELESS OPERATOR,"
"BERT WILSON'S FADEAWAY BALL."
Copyright, 1914, By
SULLY AND KLEINTEICH
_All rights reserved._
Published and Printed, 1924; by
Western Printing & Lithographing Company
Racine, Wisconsin
Printed in U. S. A.
BERT WILSON, MARATHON WINNER
CHAPTER I
WITH FLYING FEET
A thundering cheer burst from ten thousand throats, as the three
athletes, running like deer, swung into the stretch and straightened
away for home.
It was the last day of the intercollegiate meet for field and track
events, and the most thrilling feature had been reserved for the
wind-up. It was a modified Marathon of fifteen miles and the fastest
runners in the East had entered the lists. Each college had sent the
pick of its runners to struggle for the mastery, and excitement was at
fever heat.
The stands were a mass of color, packed with the partisans of the
various contenders and "rooting" fiercely for their favorites. The
different events--pole vaulting, hammer throwing, broad and high
jumping--had been bitterly contested, and the victories had been only a
matter of inches. And now with the minor features disposed of, all eyes
were centered on the most important of all--the long distance race.
A splendid body of athletes, twenty in number, had faced the starter,
and at the crack of his pistol had darted off like greyhounds freed from
the leash. They formed a magnificent picture of youth and vigor as they
sped around the track. For the first mile or two they kept a fairly
compact formation; but then the line began to lengthen. Some through
weariness, others through craftiness, fell to the rear and let the
others make the pace. By the time five miles had been covered, the
sifting process began. Brawn and wind and staying power asserted
themselves. The weaker or more poorly conditioned dropped out altogether
or plodded hopelessly in the rear. At six miles from the finish, only
five were left, and when they entered upon the last mile, the race had
narrowed down to three.
In the stands Bedlam broke loose. The excitement that had been seething
all the afternoon reached its climax. The frantic rooters hurled
entreaties and begged their favorites to come on and win. Old "grads"
worked themselves into a state bordering on apoplexy, while pretty girls
waved their flags and joined their treble to the bass of the men. The
tremendous uproar put new life and spirit into the tired racers as they
braced themselves for the final sprint.
The race seemed to belong to one of the first two who were running neck
and neck. Fifty feet behind came the third. He was tall and splendidly
built with the narrow hips and broad chest that mark the thoroughbred.
To the ordinary observer he seemed to be out of it, in view of the gap
that separated him from the two leaders. An expert, however, would have
seen that he was running easily and had himself well in hand. At the
half he lengthened his stride almost imperceptibly and reduced the lead
to twenty feet.
Then something happened. The steady lope became a sprint; the sprint
became a flight. He came down the track like a bullet from a gun, with
eyes blazing, head erect and his legs working like piston rods. He
seemed to be flying rather than running. Foot by foot he overtook the
men in front. They knew from the startled roar of their partisans that
he was coming, they heard the rushing feet behind them, and they called
on every ounce of strength they had for a last desperate effort. For a
moment they held their own, but only for a moment. With a terrific burst
of speed that brought the yelling stands to their feet, he passed them
as though they were standing still and breasted the tape a winner, in
the fastest time ever recorded for the track.
"Wilson," "Wilson," "Wilson," shouted the wearers of the Blue as they
poured down over the field in a frantic mob that threatened to engulf
him. In a twinkling they hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him
about the track while their college songs went booming down the field.
They fairly fought to get near him and refused to let him go, until at
the clubhouse door he laughingly shook himself loose and went in for his
bath and rub-down.
"By the powers," exclaimed Reddy, the trainer of the team, as he nearly
shook his hand off, "you did yourself proud, Wilson, me boy. I'm not
denying that me heart was in me mouth when the fellows were showing you
the way to the tape. But I kept saying to myself: 'He'll know when the
time comes to let himself out,' and sure enough ye did. Ye came down
that track in the last lap like the Twentieth Century Express. Ye only
hit the high places. I never saw such running in my life."
"Well," came the answer laughingly, "I'm sorry I nearly gave you heart
failure, Reddy, but we won, and that's the main thing after all. I never
felt worried myself for a minute. I was sure I had the other fellows'
number as soon as I cared to let go. I could see that they'd shot their
bolt when we turned into the stretch and I knew I had plenty in reserve.
I had my second wind and felt as if I could run all day."
"They sure were all in when they staggered over the line," said Reddy.
"Brady collapsed altogether and Thornton looked like a ghost. But
you're as fine as silk and haven't turned a hair. Ye look as though ye
could do it all over again," he went on admiringly as he noticed the
elastic step and regular breathing.
"No, thank you," was the response, "I'm no glutton and I know when I
have enough. But now for the shower, Reddy, and then for the training
table. I'm hungry as a wolf."
With his skin glowing and every muscle tingling from the vigorous
rub-down, he stepped from the clubhouse only to run the gauntlet of the
enthusiasts who had been waiting for him at the entrance. A mighty shout
rose and hands without number grasped his or patted him on the back.
"What's the matter with Wilson?" they queried and the answer came in a
rousing chorus: "He's all right."
At last he escaped from his rejoicing comrades, and in company with Dick
Trent and Tom Henderson, his special chums, started over to the college
buildings. The reaction from the terrific strain was beginning to make
itself felt. But his heart was filled with exultation. He had fought
fiercely. He had fought fairly. And he had fought victoriously. He had
won glory for his Alma Mater and carried her colors to triumph. And just
at that moment he would not have changed places with the President of
the United States or the king of any country in the world.
"Gee, Bert," said Tom, "that was a wonderful sprint in the stretch. You
didn't have legs; they were wings. Just as the other fellows too were
thinking it was all over except the shouting."
"Yes," added Dick, "it would have been tall running even for a hundred
yard dash. But how you did it after running fifteen miles is beyond me.
By George, I wish I had timed you on that last lap. I'd have hated to be
in your way as you came tearing down to the line."
"There might have been a mix-up for a fact," laughed Bert. "That tape
looked awfully good to me and I'd surely have felt peevish if any one
had hit it before I did. And it wasn't any sure thing at that. Thornton
and Brady were certainly running some. I looked for them to crack before
they did. If they'd had the least bit in reserve, they might have made
it hot for me. But they'd killed themselves off in making the pace. I
just kept trailing and watching, and when the right moment came I made
my run. But they're dandy runners," he added, with the generosity that
was one of his leading traits, "and in another race they might reverse
the verdict."
"Not in a thousand years," maintained Tom stoutly. "They never saw and
never will see the day they can outrun you. It's you for the Olympic
team all right. There's no one this side of the 'big pond' who can make
you take his dust."
"No," chimed in Dick, "nor on the other side either. There isn't a
fellow who saw you run to-day that wouldn't back you to beat anything in
Europe and America put together."
"Not so fast fellows," remonstrated Bert. "Remember I haven't even made
the team yet. This is only a preliminary tryout for the Eastern cracks.
I've got to come up against the Western bunch and if all I hear is true
they are going 'great guns' in practice. Then too they grow some speedy
sprinters in the amateur athletic clubs--regular streaks of greased
lightning. I may prove only a false alarm when I match my wind and speed
against theirs."
"Yes," said Tom with fine scorn, "we'll worry a lot about that, won't
we Dick? Didn't Thornton hold the American record up to to-day?" he
demanded, "and didn't you run rings around him?"
"But this mightn't have been his day," began Bert.
"No," said Dick mockingly, "it wasn't. Suppose we say it was Bert
Wilson's day and let it go at that."
Their faith in Bert could not be shaken, nor was this surprising, since
it was founded on repeated incidents in their own experience. Again and
again they had seen him put to the test, and he had never failed to
measure up to the emergency. Dangers that might have daunted the
stoutest heart he had met without quailing. His physical prowess was
beyond dispute. He was a typical athlete, strong, quick, muscular, and a
natural leader in all manly sports. In most of them he stood head and
shoulders above his fellows. He had borne off trophy after trophy on
field and track. This alone would have marked him out as one to be
reckoned with, but it was only a part of the reason why he was the idol
of his friends and comrades.
His popularity lay in the fact that his splendid body held a heroic
soul. He was clear grit through and through. His muscles were no more
iron than his will. His beaten opponents often grumbled that he had no
nerves, but they never questioned his nerve. He faced life with eyes
wide open and unafraid. He stood on his own feet, asking no odds and
seeking no advantage. He never quit. There was no "yellow streak" in him
anywhere. To-day had only been one more illustration of his indomitable
will, his bulldog tenacity. Add to this that he was a staunch friend, a
jolly "pal," a true comrade, and there was no mystery as to the feeling
his friends had for him.
None felt these qualities more strongly than his particular chums, Tom
and Dick. Their friendship was one of many years standing and grew
steadily stronger as time went on. Every new experience tightened the
bond between them. They had been with him on many occasions, some merely
exciting, others attended by personal danger, and none had ever shown
the white feather. In all their adventures, Bert had been easily the
central figure. When as campers they had had that thrilling automobile
race it was Bert's hand on the wheel that had steered the Red Scout to
its glorious victory over the Gray Ghost, its redoubtable rival. In that
last heart-breaking game when the "Blues" captured the championship of
the college diamond, it was Bert's masterly pitching of his great
'fadeaway' ball that snatched victory from defeat before twenty thousand
frenzied rooters. Only a few months before, when acting as wireless
operator on that summer evening off the China coast, it was Bert's quick
wit and dauntless courage that had beaten off the pirate attack and sent
the yellow scoundrels tumbling into their junks. Small wonder then that
they believed in him so fully and refused to concede that he could lose
in anything he undertook. Mentally and actually they were prepared to
back him to the limit. While delighted at to-day's victory they were in
no way surprised. He "had the habit" of winning.
After supper, where Bert made ample amends for the "short commons" he
had been under while preparing for the race, Tom came into the rooms
that Bert and Dick shared together, for his usual chat before bedtime.
"Mustn't keep you up too late, old fellow," he said as he dropped into a
chair. "I suppose you want to hit the feathers early to-night. You must
be dead tired after the race."
"Oh, I'm not especially sleepy," replied Bert, "just a little lazy. I
had such a big supper that I'm doing the anaconda stunt, just now. I'm
full and therefore happy. I'm at peace with all mankind. If I've an
enemy in the world, I forgive him."
"Well, you haven't an enemy in this college world just now, you can bet
on that," said Tom. "The fellows are talking of nothing else than the
race this afternoon. The whole place is buzzing with it. They're sure
that you've cinched your place on the Olympic team beyond all question."
"By the way," broke in Dick, "how did this Olympic idea get its start
anyway? Who dug it up? Who saw it first?"
"Why," replied Tom, "it was a Frenchman I believe--de Coubertin or some
name like that--who suggested it."
"That seems queer too," said Dick. "You don't usually think of the
French in connection with athletics. Of course they're a great nation
and all that, but somehow or other they bring to mind high heels and
frock coats and waxed mustaches and button hole bouquets. The men kiss
each other when they meet and they cry too easily. They seem a little
too delicate for the rough work of the field and track."
"They do seem a little womanish," admitted Bert, "but that is only a
matter of custom. Don't think for a minute, though, that there is
anything weak or cowardly about the French. There are no finer fighters
in the world. They go to their death as gaily as to a dinner. No one
will die more readily for an idea. A little theatrical about it,
perhaps, but the real stuff is there."
"Oh, they're fighters sure enough," asserted Dick. "They're something
like old Fuzzy-Wuzzy that Kipling tells about;
"''E's all 'ot sand and ginger when alive,
And 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.'"
"To be sure," went on Bert, "they had it handed to them good and plenty
in 1870. But that wasn't due to any lack of courage on their part. Both
sides fought bravely, but the Germans were better prepared. They caught
the French napping."
"Well," said Tom, "it was this very affair of 1870 that started de
Coubertin in the matter of the Olympic games. He smarted under defeat.
He got the idea that his people needed building up physically. It was
shy on brawn and muscle. At first he had only the French in mind, but
soon his plans took in other nations too. So a big convention of
delegates met in Paris and formed an Olympic committee that has carried
on the work ever since."
"When did they hold the first meet?" asked Dick.
"At Athens in 1896," answered Tom, "and it certainly seemed right that
Greece, the scene of the old Olympic games, should have the first chance
at the new. And everybody was glad too to have a Greek win the first
great Marathon race. The excitable Greeks went wild over it. They gave
him all sorts of presents. Some were of great value; others were simply
comical. A tailor gave him a suit of clothes. A barber promised him free
shaves for life. A restaurant gave him a dinner every day for a year and
another volunteered two cups of coffee daily as long as he lived. One
laundry did his washing free and another his ironing. Many women offered
to marry him, but he turned them all down for the little Greek girl, his
sweetheart, who had promised to say 'yes' if he came in first."
"Perhaps that's what made him win," laughed Dick.
"Well it didn't slow him up any," agreed Tom, "you may be sure of that."
"Since that time," he went on, "they have met in various places. We've
had it once in this country, in St. Louis, in 1904. But whether held
here or abroad, your Uncle Sam has been on deck every time. Our boys
have taken twice as many first prizes as all other nations put
together."
"That's a winning way we have," crowed Dick. "We're seldom far behind
when the laurel crowns are handed out."
"The whole idea is splendid, anyway," exclaimed Bert. "The men that meet
in the games learn to like and respect each other. When they once get
together they're surprised to find how much they are alike in all that
goes to make up a man."
"Yes," said Dick, "it helps a lot. I'll bet it does more good than all
the Peace societies you hear so much about. It's bound to make us
understand each other better. So here's to the next Olympic, especially
its Marathon race, and may the best man win!"
"He will," said Tom, with a glance at Bert, "and I know his name."