A GLORIOUS VICTORY
It was a perfect day for the great race that was to settle the
long-distance championship of the world. The sun shone brightly, but not
too hotly, and there was a light breeze sufficient to cool the runners,
but not retard their progress.
The Marathon was to start at three in the afternoon at a point
twenty-six miles away from the Stadium. The most detailed preparations
had been made for the event. The distance had been carefully measured
off by expert surveyors, and policed from end to end in order to keep a
clear path for the racers and see that the rules were strictly observed.
At every hundred feet stood a group of soldiers. All traffic had been
suspended by an imperial order. An ambulance, with Red Cross doctors and
nurses, was to follow and pick up any who might fall out or be overcome
with exhaustion.
The contestants had been taken to the starting point in automobiles the
night before, so that they might get a good night's sleep and be in
prime condition. Now the temporary training quarters were humming with
bustle and excitement. The last bath and rubdown and kneading of the
muscles were over and the final words of caution and encouragement
spoken, as the fellows lined up in readiness for the starter's pistol.
Bert, in superb condition, his skin glowing, his muscles rippling, shook
hands with his friends, as he stood waiting for the start.
"For the good old college, Bert," said Drake.
"For the team," barked Reddy.
"For the flag," said Tom.
"For America," added Dick.
"I'll remember," answered Bert, as he touched the flag at his waist, and
the look came into his eyes that they had learned to know.
A moment's breathless silence, while over a hundred trained athletes
watched the starter, as he looked along the waiting line and slowly
raised his pistol. A shot, a tremendous roar from the crowd, a rush of
feet like a stampede of steers and they were off. A moment later Berlin
knew that they had started. Five minutes later, all Europe knew it. Ten
minutes later, America knew it. Two continents were watching the race,
and beneath the gaze of these invisible witnesses the runners bounded
on. All types were there; brawny Germans, giant Swedes, stolid
Englishmen, rangy Canadians, dapper Frenchmen, swarthy Italians, lithe
Americans--each one bound to win or go down fighting.
At first the going was rather hard on account of the great number of
contenders. They got in each other's way. They were like a herd of
fleeing deer, treading on each other's heels.
Bert's first impulse was to get out in front. Like every thoroughbred,
he hated to have anyone show him the way. The sight of a runner ahead
was like a red rag to a bull. But he restrained himself. If he were to
win that race, he must use his brains as well as his legs. What use to
waste his strength by trying to thread his way through those flying
feet? Let them make the pace. By and by they would string out and the
path would clear. In the meantime he would keep within striking
distance.
As he ran on easily, Thornton ranged alongside.
"May I go with you, my pretty maid?" he grinned.
"You may if you like, kind sir, she said," retorted Bert.
"We must make it one, two, three for America, to-day," went on Thornton.
"That's the way to talk," replied Bert, and then, as breath was
precious, they subsided.
The course led uphill and down, over country roads and through
villages whose quaint beauty would have appealed to Bert under other
circumstances. But to-day he had no eye for scenery, no thought of
anything but the road that stretched before him like a ribbon, and the
Stadium, so many miles away.
Five miles, ten, and the pace began to tell. Some had dropped out
altogether and others were staggering. The sheep were being separated
from the goats. The real runners were ranging up in front, watching each
other like hawks, intent on seizing any advantage. Most of them by this
time had found their second wind and settled into their stride. Some
were running on a schedule and paid no attention to their competitors,
serenely confident that in the long run their plan would carry them
through.
But Bert had no use for schedules. To him they were like the schemes to
break the bank at Monte Carlo, infallible on paper, but falling down
sadly when put to the test. As he had told Tom on an earlier occasion,
"it was men, not time, that he had to beat." So he kept a wary eye on
the men in front and sped along with that easy swinging lope that seemed
so easy to beat until one tried to do it.
Now fifteen miles had been covered and Bert let out a link. It would not
do to wait too long before challenging the leaders. Dorner, the German,
and Boudin, the Frenchman, were already far enough ahead to make him
feel a trifle uneasy. Hallowell too and the Indian were a quarter of a
mile in front and showed no signs of wavering. Now was the time to wear
them down. Almost insensibly he lengthened his stride and with every
leap decreased the distance. The crowd that lined the road, quick to
detect the spurt, hailed him with cheers as he sped past, and the men in
front, sensing danger, themselves put on extra speed and battled to
retain the lead.
And now, Nature took a hand. A thunder storm that had been brewing for a
half hour past, broke suddenly at the eighteenth mile, and the rain came
down in torrents. It beat against their faces and drenched them to the
skin. It cooled and refreshed their heated bodies, but it made the
footing slippery and uncertain. It taxed, too, their strength and
vitality, already strained to the utmost.
In the wild tumult of the elements, Bert exulted. The thunder roared,
the lightning flashed, and his own spirit shouted in unison. It appealed
to something primitive and elemental in his nature. And as he ran on in
the gathering darkness, the vivid lightning playing in blinding flashes
about his lithe figure and tossing hair, he seemed like a faun or a
young god in the morning of the world, rather than a product of the
twentieth century.
But he was quickly enough brought back to reality. He had overhauled
Hallowell and the Indian, and set sail for the French and German
runners, when, just as he dashed round the foot of a hill, he slipped on
the wet going and swerved against a rock at the edge of the road. A keen
pain shot through his foot, and he saw to his dismay that his right shoe
had been slit from end to end by the sharp edge of the rock. The injury
to the foot was only a scratch, but, when he tried to run, the shoe
flapped loosely and threatened to throw him. A great fear came upon him,
and his heart turned sick.
In the meantime, Reddy and the boys had ridden back by another road to
Berlin. The trainer dropped Tom and Dick at the Stadium and then whirled
back to the hotel. Here the American band was quartered and down this
street the runners were to pass. Reddy sought out the leader. A short
conference and the band gathered in full force on the balcony
overlooking the street.
Reddy glanced at his watch. They must be coming now. The leader poised
his baton expectantly.
"Wait," said Reddy confidently, "till the first one gets abreast of the
hotel. Then let her go for all you're worth."
Minutes passed that seemed like hours. Then there was a stir among the
crowds, a craning of necks, a murmur growing into a roar, and the
leading runner came in sight. Reddy took one look and turned pale. The
leader lifted his baton as the runner drew nearer.
"Not yet," cried Reddy, clutching at him fiercely. "Not yet."
A second runner appeared and then a third.
"Not yet," groaned Reddy. "O, hivins, not yet."
Then down the street came a flying figure. Reddy needed no second
glance. He knew that giant stride, those plunging leaps. On he came like
a thunderbolt, and the crowd drew back as though from a runaway horse.
"Now," screamed Reddy. "Now."
And in one great crash the band broke out into the glorious strains of
"The Star Spangled Banner."
Bert lifted his head. The music poured through his veins like liquid
fire and his heart almost leaped from his body. His strength had been
oozing away, his breath was coming in sobs. His shoes had been torn off
and cast aside, his bruised feet tortured him at every stride, and every
ounce of power had been cruelly taxed in the effort to close up the gap
caused by the accident. Now he was running on his nerve. And just at
this moment, like an electric shock to his ebbing strength, came the
thrilling strains that might have stirred the dead:
"The Star Spangled Banner, oh, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave."
The flag, his flag, "Old Glory," never stained by defeat since it was
flung to the breeze, victorious in every war for a hundred years, its
shining stars undimmed by time, the pride and boast of the greatest
country on God's green earth! His feverish fingers touched the sash at
his waist. "We have met the enemy and they are ours." The Star-Spangled
Banner!
Now he was running like a man possessed. Gone was pain, gone were
bruises, gone the deadly weariness that dragged him down. His feet had
wings. His heart sang. His eyes shone. He seemed inspired by superhuman
strength. Like an arrow he shot past the Frenchman who was staggering on
gamely, and step by step he gained on Dorner, the gallant German, who
had been dubbed by his admirers "The Flying Dutchman."
Flying he certainly was, spurred on by the wild yells of the German
crowds, mad with joy at seeing their colors in front. But the shouts
died down as Bert slipped by like a shadow, relentless as fate, close on
the heels of the leader, grimly fighting for every inch.
And now the Stadium loomed up, gay with flaunting flags, and packed to
the doors with a countless multitude wild with excitement. The word had
been flashed along that a German was leading, and the crowds were on
their feet, screaming like madmen. The Emperor and royal family, all
ceremony thrown aside, were standing and shouting like the rest. The
American contingent, despair eating at their hearts, sat glum and
silent.
The twenty-six miles had been measured to end at the very doors, and the
remaining three hundred and eighty-five yards of the Marathon distance
was in the Stadium itself. Dorner entered first and Pandemonium reigned.
Then a second figure shot through, running like the wind, at his belt
the Stars and Stripes. And now it was America's turn to yell!
Down the stretch they came, see-sawing for the lead. Before them gleamed
the tape that marked the finish. No one had ever yet broken that tape
ahead of Bert in a race. He swore that no one should do it now.
Nearer and nearer. What was it the fellows had said? "For the college."
"For the team." "For the flag." "For America." He nerved himself for the
last desperate spurt. Once more he called on the stout heart that had
never failed him yet. A series of panther-like bounds, one wild
tremendous leap and he snapped the tape. Again America had matched its
best against the world, and again America had conquered!
* * * * *
It was a jubilant crowd that made the return voyage on the _Northland_,
in the words of Tom, "one continuous joy ride." Training was over, the
strain relaxed, the victory won. It had been a tussle from start to
finish, but they had carried off the prize and one more series of
Olympic games had been placed to Uncle Sam's credit. Thornton,
Hallowell, Texanima, Brady and Casey had finished among the first ten
and shared with Bert the honors of the Marathon. The Emperor himself had
placed the laurel crown on Bert's head, and, as Dick said, proved
himself "a dead game sport" by the gracious words with which he veiled
his disappointment. Cable messages had poured in on Bert by the score,
but none so pleasing as the one from Mr. Hollis: "You ran a magnificent
race, my boy. The Perry flag is yours."
And now they were on their way home with their hard-won trophies--home
to an exulting country, whose glory they had upheld and which stood
impatient to greet them with rousing cheers and open arms and all the
honors a grateful nation could bestow.
The praises rained on Bert had left him as natural and unspoiled as
ever. To him the whole thing was simple. A task had been put before him
and he had done it. That was all.
"'Twas me that did it," joked Reddy, "me and the band."
"Sure," laughed Dick, "though of course Bert's wind and speed counted
for something."
"To say nothing of his grit and nerve," chimed in Tom.
"'Twas this that did it," added Bert, as he reverently unfolded the
faded battle flag that had waved over Perry's glorious squadron.
"Running with this, I couldn't lose."
On other fields of struggle and achievement that flag was to be his
inspiration. How fully he honored it, how nobly he fought for it, how
stainless he kept it will be told in
"BERT WILSON AT PANAMA."
THE END
Transcriber's Notes:
--Text in italics is enclosed by underscores ( _italics_ ).
--Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
--Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
--Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
End of Project Gutenberg's Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner, by J. W. Duffield