THE HANDICAPS
The Fall Handicap Meet took place on a Thursday afternoon, and
practically the whole school turned out in the rôle of contestant,
official or onlooker. Of course there were some not present; the
baseball players, who were drawing to the end of fall practice; a few
tennis enthusiasts; a few others who preferred the river to the grand
stand; and the football men. But of the latter not all remained away,
for a handful had been given leave to take part in the events. Le
Gette and Leonard were there to toy with the shot and hammer, Earnest
Lowe was on hand to compete in both the pole vault and the sprints,
and there were as many others who had changed canvas for “shorts.”
Over fifty lads had entered, the Junior Class being rather better
represented than any of the others. Some thirty more fellows were on
hand in various official capacities, and among these was Neil Orr who,
as usual on such occasions, was one of the timers. Naturally, there
weren’t very many left to act as audience.
The afternoon was clear and there was warmth in the sunlight, but
a cool breeze blew down the stretch and kept the gaudily colored
bathrobes of the entrants wrapped tightly about lightly-clothed bodies.
When Stuart reached the track a little after three the field events
were already under way, and lithe, white-clad figures were busy at
the vaulting and jumping standards. He could see, too, the big form
of Steve Le Gette poised momentarily like a statue ere he sent the
shot away. Stuart’s first event was the half mile, and that was set
for three-forty, and so, clutching his robe closely about his bare
legs, he seated himself on the turf beside Tom Hanson. Tom, excused
from football work for the afternoon, was entered for the 100 and 220
events. Half a dozen other contestants were in the group, watching the
trials of the 100-yards hurdles which had just started.
“Didn’t know you were in this game,” observed Hanson as Stuart joined
the group. “What’s yours, Cap? Quarter mile?”
Tom had used the title from force of habit and probably didn’t know
that he had used it, which Stuart realized after he had shot a quick
glance at the other’s smiling face. Stuart explained that he was down
for the half mile and the mile.
“Haven’t done much running lately, have you?” Tom asked.
“Not much. Won’t to-day, probably. Thought I’d just like to keep my
hand in, you know.”
“Meaning your legs,” chuckled Tom. “Well, you’ll have plenty of company
in your events, I guess; especially the mile. About every junior who
has two good legs thinks he’s a miler. I know, for I did myself when I
came. Ran fourteenth in a field of thirteen, or something like that,
and then The Laird got me to try the sprints. Mighty glad he did, too,
for it was only the fact that I could manage the hundred in ten flat
that got me on the football team. That was last year. Remember?”
Stuart nodded. “Certainly do, Tom. That was some run of yours in the
Forest Hill game. Eighty-five yards, wasn’t it?”
“Eighty, to be truthful. Or half a yard more, maybe. It was a funny
piece of luck. I’d been sitting on the bench ever since the season
started and hadn’t been in a game. Fair enough, too, for all I could do
was punt a bit.”
“How about run?” laughed Stuart.
“Well, yes, I could sprint, but I mean I wasn’t much use as far as
football stuff went. That day they laid Pitkin out cold in the first
quarter, if you remember, and then Ernie got a kick in the head and for
some reason or other Coach picked on me. That was in the third quarter,
close to the end of it, and the ball was about seven yards from our
goal.”
“Yes, and third down, too, with only two to go,” added Stuart grimly.
“Forest Hill had us beaten, 9 to 0. Anyway, we all thought so.”
“So did the coach,” chuckled Tom Hanson. “Anyway, he just told me
that here was a good chance to improve my education, and to go on
in at right half. ‘Any orders, sir?’ I asked, mighty knowing. He
looked disgusted and said: ‘No, except you can tell those Little Lord
Fauntleroys out there to bring the ball back when they get through
playing with it!’ He was sore, all right.”
“We all were,” said Stuart reflectively. “Forest Hill had been
making goats of us for three periods and we didn’t seem able to help
ourselves. Gee, we didn’t know enough football to play a night school!”
“Well, that was certainly a lucky fumble,” mused Tom.
“Lucky for us,” grunted Stuart. “Those fellows were so certain of that
touchdown they thought they didn’t have to really play. I saw the ball
jump out of the back’s hands and I tried mighty hard to get through to
it, but Stoughton was in my way. I yelled ‘_Ball! Ball!_’ until I was
hoarse, and no one seemed to hear me. Our line was just pushing and
shoving, like a lot of fellows paid by the day! They didn’t seem to
realize that nothing was hitting them and that the whole Forest Hill
team was chasing the ball! Guess you were the only other chap of our
crowd who saw the blamed thing was loose!”
“I thought I’d never get around to it,” said Tom. “It rolled out to the
left of our line and I had to upset Lever to get him out of my way.
When I got to it luck played right into my hands. It was still bobbing
around, with about six of the enemy grabbing for it. Just as I edged in
it must have hit a pebble, I guess, for blamed if it didn’t hop about
eighteen inches into the air and right into my paws. After that it was
easy.”
“Yes, awfully easy,” said Stuart derisively. “All you had to do was get
clear of the whole Forest Hill mob and run eighty yards!”
“Well, no one troubled me much,” answered Tom.
“N-no, not after you’d got going good, but I had seven varieties of
heart failure for a while. Boy, you surely traveled!”
“Had to! Besides, I was fresh as a daisy. Just as soon as I’d worked
out of the crowd I knew I was all right. There wasn’t one of that bunch
who wasn’t too tired to give me a race.”
“That got us the game,” reflected Stuart. “Gee, but I’ll never forget
how crazy we were when we saw you go over that line! After that we just
got it into our heads that Forest Hill wasn’t such a sight better than
we were, and we tore her up.”
“It looked like we’d started too late, though, until you got off that
forward pass to ‘Mudgard.’ Even then I wouldn’t have bet much on our
winning.”
“No, for Burns had a mean angle to kick from and there was some wind.
Not much, but plenty to queer his aim. At that, if you remember, the
old pigskin hit the bar going over!”
“Sure do,” chuckled Hanson. “I remember lots of things about that game.”
“I’ll bet you do. I guess you remember the way the fellows got up and
cheered you when you came in to supper that night, for one thing!”
Stuart laughed softly. “You certainly were the popular guy that time,
Tom!”
“Oh, shucks! Anyway, that got me started. That’s why I say I’m glad I
didn’t make a miler. If I’d finished that race much better than twelfth
or thirteenth――anyway, last but one――I’d have gone right on running the
distances.”
Stuart nodded. “And we’d have lost a crackajack half, Tom. Glad you
were so rotten. Bet you, though, I’ll do even worse to-day than you
did.”
“Oh, I guess you’ll finish pretty well up,” said Tom. “Of course that
poor fish, Lantwood, will win. Say, I can’t stand that chap.”
“Well, he isn’t horribly attractive to me,” responded the other, “but
I’ve nothing against him. He certainly can run the mile; and the half,
too, for that matter. What have you got against the lad, Tom?”
“Oh, I’ve heard two or three things,” answered Tom vaguely.
“Such as what?”
But Tom shook his head. “I’d rather not tell, Cap. They might not be
true.”
“Then why do you put stock in them?” laughed Stuart.
Tom grinned. “Well, I’m satisfied that they are true, but――oh, well,
they mightn’t be! Say, how did he manage to make Lyceum, anyway?”
“I forget who backed him. He came in with a crowd last January.”
Stuart’s brow darkened. “It is funny that a chap like Austin
Lantwood can make the society and a decent fellow like Neil Orr gets
blackballed! It makes me sick.”
“That’s so,” Tom agreed. “It was rather putrid, I thought. Ever learn
who did it, Cap?”
“I know who did it, all right,” replied Stuart morosely. “And he’ll get
his some day.”
“Well!” Tom viewed his companion speculatively. “Guess it wasn’t the
fellow I thought it might be, then.”
“I don’t know who you thought it was,” said Stuart, “but there’s just
one fellow it could be.”
“Meaning?”
But Stuart’s reply was prevented by the stentorian summons to the
half-milers and he left Tom and went over to the starting line. Jud
McColl was in charge there, and when Stuart had answered to his name
he was sent down to his mark. Only Austin Lantwood stood on scratch.
He was a tall, thin, pale-faced, upper-middler with colorless hair
and light blue eyes. But he had the runner’s build and the muscles of
his stem-like legs worked like oiled machinery under the skin. Tully,
a senior, came next. Then half a dozen more were sprinkled along the
cinders to where Stuart was stationed with three others, evidently
all juniors, somewhat nervous and jumpy. Still others were placed
here and there around the turn. Secretly, Stuart considered that the
handicappers had been more flattering than charitable in awarding him
his allowance. Still, he was so little concerned in his fortunes that
he couldn’t muster up even a mild indignation. After the usual delay, a
pistol went off behind him and he sprang forward. It took six strides
to secure the position next to the rim, and he had to yield place to
one of the juniors to reach it. After that he settled into a fair
pace and determined to hold it, no matter what happened, until he had
reached the end of the backstretch on the second, and last, lap.
There had been nineteen starters and when Stuart was well into the
backstretch on that first lap more than half of the number were ahead
of him. Lantwood didn’t pull up and past until the last turn was
behind. Tully was close at his heels, with Farnsworth, one of Stuart’s
classmates, coming stride for stride with him. The bell rang for the
final lap with the field well bunched in front of the stand. But after
that the runners began to string out. Just past the first turn Lantwood
sprinted and took the lead and Tully fell into third place, with
Farnsworth still keeping pace with him. Stuart was then eighth man, and
until he was well into the backstretch he had some notion of bettering
his place. But the next moment he realized that he would be lucky to
finish, for Lantwood was setting a fast pace and Stuart’s breath was
going fast. Halfway along the back he fell into tenth position, and
from there on he ran in genuine distress. He got back his wind a little
at the last corner, but he was still in bad shape and finished just
about dead-beat in tenth place. Lantwood won in good time by something
over twelve yards, with Tully second, a junior Levering third and
Farnsworth a poor fourth. For a few minutes Stuart was too busy getting
his lungs working as they should to display much interest in the
result. He was convinced that running was not his game; at least that
running the half mile wasn’t; and was seriously considering having his
name scratched for the mile.
But there remained half an hour before that event was to be run, and
maybe he’d better wait and see how he felt. After all, it was sort of
yellow to give up so early. He could at least start. Hanson, who had
won into the finals in both sprints, told him he had run a good race.
“I was watching you, Cap,” said Tom, “and you surely handled yourself
well. Of course your trouble is that you haven’t had enough work. I
wouldn’t wonder, though, if you’d do a heap better in the mile. Guess
the longer distance and the slower pace is your meat. Let some one
pace you for the first three laps, Cap. Then you don’t have to trouble
about your time so much. Get in behind Tully, if you can. He’s a mighty
steady runner and you can depend on him to take you to the fourth lap
in good shape. Old Tully’s a fox at the running game. Maybe he isn’t
as fast as Lantwood, but he always finishes with something left, and a
couple of years from now he will be getting a lot more firsts than that
poor simp.”
“I might almost think, to listen to your talk, Tom, that you didn’t
like Lantwood.”
“Oh, he can run,” answered Tom, “and so can a coyote.”
“Ever see one?”
“No, but I’ll bet he’d look a lot like Lantwood!”
“I won’t bet with you. Guess I’ll go over and see what sort of a
handicap they’re giving me for the mile.”
“Don’t you know?” demanded Tom incredulously. Stuart shook his head.
“Well, you surely are taking a big interest in this business! Are you
quite sure you’ve got your name down?”
Stuart grinned. “Why anticipate trouble, old son?” he asked. “It’s
bound to turn out that they haven’t given me more than half the
handicap I ought to have.”
“Now,” answered the other approvingly, “you sound like a real
ath-a-lete!”
“Thanks. Hope you cop your sprints, Tom. What do you think?”
“Guess I’ll get first in the two-twenty, with any sort of luck, but I’m
not likely to do better than third in the other. Lowe has that cinched,
and Bannister’s a bit better than me at the distance. I’m a rotten
starter. Ernie always has two yards on me at the gun.”
“Well, there’s your call. Let’s see you beat the bunch, Tom.”
Tom’s prediction regarding the 220-yard dash proved correct, for
he finished well ahead of the other three men, but, later in the
afternoon, he was proved to be slightly wrong as to the short sprint.
Instead of finishing third behind Ernest Lowe and Bannister, he
finished second, with Bannister ahead and Lowe behind. For once, as he
confided to Stuart afterwards, he had beaten Ernie away from the mark,
and his satisfaction over that achievement far exceeded his pleasure in
winning the two-twenty! But Tom Hanson was not the only contestant of
the afternoon who succeeded in accomplishing the unexpected.