A DESPERATE STRUGGLE
Tom mended fast, though not in time to go back with Bert and Dick, and
Mr. Hollis insisted that he should stay a week or ten days longer at the
lodge until he had fully recovered.
The precious week of vacation passed only too quickly, and promptly on
the day that college resumed, Bert, faithful to his promise, was back at
work. He had carefully kept up his practice, and this, combined with the
invigorating mountain air, had put him in splendid shape. As he confided
to Dick, "if he'd felt any better he'd have been afraid of himself." So
that when he reported to Reddy and submitted to his inspection, even
that austere critic could find no fault with the sinewy athlete who
smilingly extended his hand.
"By the powers," he said, as he looked him up and down approvingly, "I
did a good thing to let you go. You're fine as silk and trained to the
hour. If looks count for anything you could go in now and break the
record. Get out on the cinder path and let me time you for a five-mile
spin."
With the eye of a lynx, he noted Bert's action as he circled the track.
Nothing escaped him. The erect carriage, the arms held close to his
sides, the hip and knee movement, the feet scarcely lifted from the
ground, the long, easy stride that fairly ate up space, the dilated
nostrils through which he breathed while keeping the mouth firmly
closed, the broad chest that rose and fell with no sign of strain or
labor--above all, the sense of reserve power that told of resources held
back until the supreme moment called for them--all these marks of the
born runner the trainer noted with keen satisfaction; and he was
chuckling to himself when he snapped shut his split-second watch and
thrust it in his pocket.
"He'll have to break a leg to lose," he gloated. "That lad is in a class
by himself. I'm none too sure of the other events, but we sure have this
one cinched. We'll win in a walk."
But while he thus communed with himself, he carefully abstained from
saying as much to Bert. He had seen too many promising athletes ruined
by overconfidence. Besides, while he felt sure that Bert could take the
measure of any one now known to him as a runner, he couldn't tell but
what some "dark horse" would be uncovered at the general meet who would
bring all his hopes tumbling about his head like a house of cards. Too
many "good things" had gone wrong in his experience not to make him
cautious. So it was with well-simulated indifference that he held up his
hand at the end of the fifth mile.
"That's enough for to-day," he commanded. "To-morrow we'll start in with
the real work. We only have a scant two weeks left before the New York
meet and we'll need every minute of it."
And Bert bent himself to his task with such earnestness and good will
that when at last the great day of the final meet arrived he was at the
top of his form. Neither he nor Reddy would have any excuses to offer or
anything to reproach themselves with, if he failed to show his heels to
the field.
And, as Dick remarked, when they entered the gate of the mammoth park,
it "was certainly some field." From every section of the country they
had gathered--burly giants from the Pacific slope, the slenderer
greyhound type of the East--some from colleges, others wearing the badge
of famous athletic clubs--all of them in superb condition and all
passionately bent on winning. To carry off a trophy in such company was
a distinction to be prized. And, in addition to the ordinary incentives,
was the international character of the event. Before the eyes of each
hung the lure of a European trip and the opportunity of proving on
foreign fields that the picked athletes of America could lead the
world. Patriotism was blended with personal ambition and they formed a
powerful combination.
Moreover, the chances of being chosen were much greater than is usual in
such contests. Not only the winner in each event was to make the trip,
but the man who came in second or third or even farther down the list
would go. The Committee was not going to "put all its eggs in one
basket." The chances of sickness or accident or change of climate were
too many to justify them in depending upon a single competitor to carry
the colors of his country in any given struggle. Thus in the pole
vaulting, hammer throwing, swimming, hurdling, javelin casting, there
would be from three to six competitors each. In the Marathon--most
important of all--as many as a dozen would probably be taken. So that
all were buoyed up by the hope that even if some luckier or better man
carried off first honors to-day, they still might be of the elect, if
they were well up at the finish.
It was a striking and animated scene that the great park presented. A
famous regimental band played national airs and "Old Glory" floated
proudly over the judges' pavilion. The stands were packed with a vast
multitude that overflowed on the lawns, while on the inner track groups
of contenders indulged in preliminary practice and loosened up their
muscles before the games began. Then the bell rang, the tracks were
cleared and the throng settled down to watch the performance of their
favorites.
Fortune was kind to the Blues that day and their number was hoisted more
than once on the bulletin board. Burly Drake cast the discus one hundred
and thirty-four feet. Axtell won the standing broad jump and set the
mark at eleven feet, two inches. Hinchman was second in the half-mile,
and Martin cleared the pole at a height of twelve feet, one inch. Bert
and Dick exulted at the showing of their Alma Mater and Reddy tried in
vain to conceal his delight under a mask of grim indifference.
At last the time came for the Marathon. Eighteen miles was to be the
limit, as the Committee agreed with Reddy that the actual Marathon
distance might well be deferred until the day of the actual race. It was
a fair presumption that those who showed up best at the end of the
eighteen miles would be best prepared to cover the full distance of
twenty-six when they had to face that heart-breaking test.
A final rub-down and Bert was ready. A last slap on the shoulder from
Dick, a word of caution from Reddy, a howl of welcome from the Blues as
he came in sight, and he trotted to the starting line where forty more
were gathered. He threw off his sweater, and clad only in his light
tunic and running trunks, with a blue sash about his waist, faced the
starter. Like a young Viking he stood there, lithe and alert, in his eye
the light of combat, in his veins the blood of youth, in his heart the
hope of triumph.
A moment's breathless pause. Then the pistol cracked and they were off.
As they rushed in a compact body past the stand, a tremendous roar of
greeting and encouragement nerved them to the struggle. In a twinkling
they were rounding the first turn and the race was fairly on.
They had not gone a mile before Bert knew that he had his work cut out
for him. It was not that there was any phenomenal burst of speed that
tended to take him off his feet. At this he would merely have smiled at
that stage of the game. Sprinting just then would have been suicidal.
But it was rather the air of tension, of grim determination, of subtle
craftiness that made itself felt as in none of his previous races.
Many of these men, especially the members of the athletic clubs,
were veterans who had competed at a score of meets, while he was a
comparative novice. They knew every trick of the racing game. Their
judgment of pace, based on long experience, was such that without the
aid of a watch they could tell within a few seconds the time of every
mile they made. Hard as nails, holders of records, intent of purpose,
they might well inspire respect and fear.
Respect--yes. Fear--no. There flashed across Bert's mind a quaint saying
of Reddy's about pugilists: "The bigger they are the harder they fall."
And he ran on.
Gradually the group spread out like a fan. None had quit, for it was any
one's race so far. But stamina and speed were beginning to tell. That
indefinable something called "class" made itself felt. Some were
faltering in their stride, others laboring heavily for breath. Sometimes
the laggards made despairing sprints that partly closed the gap between
them and the leaders, but, unable to maintain the pace, fell back again
to the ruck.
Running easily and keeping himself well in hand, Bert at the end of the
twelfth mile was bunched with five others up in front. He knew now whom
he had to beat. Thornton was at his left, and Brady a little in front.
But these did not worry him. Magnificent runners as they were, he felt
that he had their measure. He had beaten them once and could do it
again.
On his right was a little Irishman with a four-leaved clover--the emblem
of his club--embroidered on his sleeve. Behind him pounded two others,
like wolves on the flank of a deer. One of them was an Indian runner
from Carlisle, tall and gaunt, with an impassive face. The other bore
the winged-foot emblem that told of membership in the most famous
athletic club in the East.
Mile after mile passed, and still they hung on. The little Irishman was
wabbling, but still fighting gamely. Brady had "bellows to mend." Bert
could hear his breath coming in long, hoarse gasps that told of strength
rapidly failing. The Indian had ranged alongside, going strong. Behind
him still padded the feet of the remaining runner.
At the sixteenth mile, Bert quickened his pace and called on his
reserve. His heart was thumping like a trip-hammer and his legs were
weary, but his wind was good. He left the Irishman behind him and was
passing Brady, when the latter swerved from sheer fatigue right in
Bert's path and they went down in a heap.
A groan burst from the Blue partisans at the accident. Dick hid his face
in his hands and Reddy danced up and down and said things that the
recording angel, it is to be hoped, omitted to set down, in view of the
provocation.
Dazed and bruised, Bert struggled to his feet. He was not seriously
hurt, but badly shaken. He looked about and then the full extent of the
calamity burst upon him.
The downfall had acted on the other runners like an electric shock.
Thornton and the Irishman were two hundred feet in front, while the
Indian and he of the winged-foot, running neck and neck, had opened up a
gap of five hundred feet.
Had it been earlier in the race he would still have had a chance. But
now with only a mile and a half to go, the accident threatened to be
fatal to his hopes. The others had gained new life from this unexpected
stroke of luck, and it was certain that they would not easily let go
their advantage. To win now would be almost a miracle.
With savage resolution he pulled himself together. His dizzy brain
cleared. Never for a second did he think of quitting. Disaster spurred
him on to greater efforts. The Blues roared their delight as they saw
their champion start out to overtake the flyers, now so far in front,
and even the followers of the other candidates joined generously in the
applause. A crowd loves pluck and here was a fellow who was game to the
very core of him.
Link by link he let himself out. The track slipped away beneath him. The
stands were a mere blur of color. At the turn into the last mile he
passed the nervy little Irishman, and a quarter of a mile further on he
collared Thornton. Foot by foot he gained on the two others. At the
half, he ranged alongside the Indian who was swaying drunkenly from side
to side, killed off by the terrific pace. Only one was left now, but he
was running like the wind.
Now Bert threw away discretion. He summoned every ounce of grit and
strength that he possessed. With great leaps he overhauled his
adversary. Down they came toward the crowded stands, fighting for the
lead. The Blues tried to sing, but in their excitement they could only
yell. The crowd went crazy. All were on their feet, bending far over to
watch the desperate struggle. On they came to the line, first one, then
the other, showing a foot in front. Within ten feet of the line Bert
gathered himself in one savage bound, hurled himself against the tape
and fell in the arms of his exulting mates. He had won by inches.