THE LAST LAP
“_All out for the mile run! Milers this way!_”
Stuart was glad when the summons came, for the hour was growing late,
the shadows were stretching far across the field and the air was
getting decidedly chill. Even the woolen bathrobe no longer sufficed
to keep the cold from his legs, and only by frequent exercising and
rubbings was he able to hold the muscles from tightening. Many of the
patient spectators were wandering shiveringly down from the stand to
loiter up and down the side of the track. The field events were over,
all save the pole vault. In that Ernest Lowe was still fighting for
first place with Kendall, a lower middler and a horse of the darkest
hue. Already the school record had been broken and there was every
indication that the Dual record would share the same fate.
Neil swung himself over to where Stuart pranced about down beyond the
first turn. “Go get ’em,” he called cheerfully as he approached across
the turf. Stuart shook a gloomy head.
“A swell chance,” he protested. “Look at the handicap! A hundred and
forty yards in a mile run! A lot of good that will be to me! And
there’s Smiley over there with more than two hundred.”
“You’re better than he is, though, aren’t you?” asked Neil.
“Maybe a little,” allowed the other disconsolately. “But I’m too cold
to run now. My muscles are all twisted up. It’s a crazy piece of
business to keep us hanging around like this!”
“I guess the others are just as cold,” said Neil cheerfully. “There’s
quite a bunch of you, isn’t there? Must be nearly twenty.”
“For two cents I’d quit,” muttered Stuart, looking back up the track
that was sprinkled with runners.
“I wouldn’t,” advised Neil. “You may do a lot better than you expect
and be mighty glad you ran.”
“Oh, I’ll do the half, anyway,” replied the other grudgingly as the
warning cry of “_On your mark!_” floated down to him.
“Well, good luck,” said Neil. “Don’t start off too fast.”
Stuart nodded, his face set forward now, his hands tightening on the
cork grips. After a long moment of suspense the pistol rang out and
Stuart jogged into his stride.
A mile race is seldom of much interest to the spectators during the
first two laps. The positions of the contestants change so gradually
that there is no thrill to be had. Infrequently a runner sets out to
run down an opponent, but the spurt is soon over. Stuart overhauled
a junior on the first lap and was himself passed by Candee, a rather
stocky senior who used so short a stride that the wonder was he could
keep it up for the three laps that was generally his limit. At the
starting line shouts of encouragement awaited the runners as they sped
past, and Stuart heard his own name from several lips. It was Tom
Hanson’s voice, however, that sounded loudest.
“Nice running, Cap!” shouted Tom. “Lengthen out a bit!”
Stuart realized the wisdom of that advice, for he had unconsciously
been clipping his stride and running high. He was fairly in the ruck
as he approached the corner. Farnsworth was edging past him and half a
dozen others were strung along in front and behind. Not content with
the pace directly in front of Stuart, Farnsworth ran wide at the
beginning of the turn and then edged in ahead of a long-legged junior
who had not been able to hold his generous handicap. Stuart considered
passing the junior, too, taking pace from Farnsworth, but the result
seemed not worth the effort and he hugged the inside rim and pegged
on. His body was warm enough now and his muscles, in spite of his
earlier fear, were supple and responsive. Also, he had found his wind
nicely. He was, in fact, thoroughly enjoying the battle, and the idea
of quitting at the end of the second lap was forgotten. Farnsworth was
a dozen yards away when Stuart straightened out on the backstretch, and
the long-legged junior was slowing up. Stuart went outside the latter
and slipped back into place beside the four-inch boards. The breeze had
passed and the evening air was still and frostily cold. As he came to
the next turn he saw, across the turf, the face of the old stand, dyed
orange-red in the rays of the sinking sun. All around the quarter-mile
path now the contestants were strung, a few palpably out of the race
and only persevering from motives of pride. He couldn’t see either
Lantwood or Tully without turning his head, but he felt that the former
at least was fairly close behind. He wished that Tully would pass
him, for he had not forgotten Tom Hanson’s advice to tie to the more
experienced miler and hold him to the end of the third lap at least.
But Tully didn’t show up. Stuart promised himself to be ready to go
after him when he did.
It was Lantwood who passed first. He chose the straightaway for the
maneuver, spurting where the watchers were clustered thickest about
the track. Stuart reflected that that was like Lantwood, for the
pasty-faced youth always played to the gallery when he could. He didn’t
let Lantwood’s sprint hurry him, however, and went past the mark in a
babel of sound acclaiming the delight of the spectators at finding, at
last, something to cheer about. If any one hailed his passing he didn’t
know it, for Lantwood’s spectacular burst of speed brought forth an
acclaim that drowned all other applause.
The first corner found his feet growing heavy and his breathing
beginning to shorten, but he had the comforting assurance that the
others were in a like case, some more so, some less. He could not,
however, help glancing enviously at the fleet-footed Lantwood. The
latter was some forty yards ahead, leading the field, his head up and
his thin legs working like two pieces of machinery. That, acknowledged
Stuart, was real running, and he was momentarily impatient with himself
for having the temerity to pit his own amateur efforts against such
ability. But the _pat-scrunch_ of shoes beside him put the thought out
of his mind and he turned his head a fraction to see who was passing
him.
It was Tully, big and raw-boned and earnest. There was something
impressive about Tully’s running, even if he never finished better than
second or, more often, third. Tully set his pace a dozen strides from
the start and never changed it. He knew how fast he could run four laps
of the track, and he made his plans accordingly. If the pace he set
wasn’t hard enough to wear the other man out, why, that was something
else. Some day, Tully promised himself, his pace would do the trick. It
was only a matter of finding the pace that, persisted in from the start
to finish, would carry him to victory. Meanwhile, those who depended
on a final, heart-bursting sprint to carry them the last part of the
way won from him only tolerant contempt. Whether he finished first or
second or tenth, Tully would always step off the track with a tranquil
countenance and walk unhesitatingly to the dressing room. Stamina was
old Tully’s long suit, and, as The Laird observed frequently, if the
Dual Meet provided for a two-mile run Tully would win such an event at
a jog!
Tully never glanced aside as he went slowly, methodically past Stuart,
and gradually took the pole again. Behind Tully ran Walton, and Stuart
had no intention of letting the latter by just then. Stuart increased
his speed for a half-dozen strides and placed himself behind Tully.
From there he went on like the bigger fellow’s shadow, matching stride
for stride. Of the twenty or so who had started only a dozen were left
in the running, although all but three were still jogging about the
track, hopelessly distanced. Ahead of Stuart were five men: Lantwood,
with nearly a quarter of a lap lead; a red-headed fellow whose name
Stuart did not know; Smiley who, although he had lost much of his
handicap, was still running nicely; Farnsworth, who was falling back
at the turn, and Tully. Farnsworth appeared to have shot his bolt too
soon, for he was evidently in distress already. Stuart’s own condition
was not, he reflected, anything to boast of, but he could still pound
out the strides and still keep his head level. Toe to heel with Tully,
he took the corner and drew up on Farnsworth. The latter was wobbling
badly. Across the next corner, Stuart observed that the unknown redhead
was slowing up.
The gong had clanged the beginning of the last lap, announcing that
Lantwood had crossed the mark. At that moment Tully edged outward and
Stuart took his cue from the big fellow and they went past Farnsworth.
Then the straightaway began, with the crowd about the finish line. The
gong clanged again. That would be either the redhead or Smiley, thought
Stuart. He couldn’t see which was ahead. A moment later he was himself
passing the crowd, and cheers for Tully and for Harven were sounding
loudly. Stuart thought he heard Tom Hanson’s voice, but he wasn’t sure.
It didn’t matter, anyhow. Nothing much did matter but the fact that
Tully was setting a hard pace to follow. Of course Tully hadn’t altered
his speed a mite. It wasn’t that. It was merely that Stuart was getting
to the limit of his endurance, or thought he was, which was much the
same thing.
The turn brought a certain relief and encouragement. Another corner
would bring the backstretch, and after that the last turn and then the
homestretch. Halfway down the further side of the track, Lantwood was
going easily. He was not running so fast now, but he didn’t have to.
He had the race as certainly as if he was already stepping across the
line. There was no longer any question of who would win, if there ever
had been. All that remained to be settled was the matter of second,
third and fourth places. Well, if he could hold out, Stuart reflected,
he would be sure of fourth position. Tully would get second, of course,
and Smiley third. The redhead was beaten, plodding away with head
swaying and his stride short. They’d pass him at the next turn. Funny,
thought Stuart, if he and old Tully were to fight it out for fourth
place, for Smiley still had a comfortable lead and still seemed able.
He wondered what handicap Tully had had. Not much, probably, for the
old warrior was a real runner at the mile. A swift glance over his
shoulder showed Stuart that the nearest pursuer was at least thirty-odd
yards behind and in poor shape. No danger from that quarter.
The red-haired youth dropped by them as they turned into the
backstretch. Ahead, Smiley was having trouble. Stuart could see the
uncertainty of his stride. Once Smiley’s head came back, was recovered
and fell sidewise for an instant. Perhaps, then, it was to be third
place he was to fight for, and the thought gave him a thrill. But,
halfway along the stretch, his own legs began to go back on him. They
didn’t feel as if they belonged to him any more. His head, too, got
silly. It wouldn’t stay where it belonged. Something was wrong with his
neck, for the muscles pained him and felt knotted. But of course one
didn’t stop so long as he could still get his breath and keep his feet
moving. If the rim of the track would keep out of his way and not try
to trip him up he could do better. If he ever caught a spike in the
wood――
Tully’s body leaned to the left. Stuart got a better grip on himself
and followed around the corner. There was a lot of noise from across
the field. Perhaps Lantwood had finished. No, Lantwood was still in
sight, just vanishing into the lane formed by the crowd. Ahead, but
considerably nearer, was Smiley. Stuart guessed they’d beat Smiley. He
wondered if Tully hadn’t slackened his speed a mite. Here they were
at the last corner already, and if Tully would only hit it up a bit
they might get by Smiley before the finish came. But Tully kept on
untroubledly. Stuart, sobbing for breath now, wobbling a bit more on
the legs that didn’t seem his, was impatient. Didn’t the silly idiot
_want_ to win second place? What was the matter with him? Why, Smiley
was all in; any one could see it; and all they had to do was speed up
just a little to pass him!
A dozen strides further on Stuart became angry. He wanted to call out
to Tully and tell him to sprint, but he knew there was no breath left
him for any such purpose. Then, without reasoning a moment, he eased
his pace a fraction, turned slightly and ran even with the big fellow.
He wanted to say “Come on!” but he couldn’t even close his mouth to
form the words. For three strides he matched strides with Tully, and
then drew ahead. He had no longer any conscious thought of winning
second place. Ahead of him, only a little way ahead of him now, was
the faltering Smiley, and Stuart wanted to pass Smiley. He couldn’t
have explained just then why he wanted to, but he did. It was a sudden
obsession. The sight of Smiley’s swaying form ahead affronted him. He
closed his dizzy eyes and forced himself on.
The sound of excited cheers, cries, exhortations might have been the
murmur of a breeze among leaves so far as Stuart was concerned.
Later he remembered hearing it perfectly, but just then, as he went
swaying toward the finish line, it made no impression. There was but
one thought in his mind. He must reach that other runner and get past
him. And reach him he did, a scant four strides from the mark. After
that it was just a question of inches between second man and third, and
of feet between third man and fourth, for Stuart and Smiley and Tully
finished in a bunch. The principal difference was less in space than in
condition, for whereas both Stuart and Smiley toppled into the arms of
bystanders, old Tully kept on for a dozen paces, slowed gradually and
then walked off to where he had left his bathrobe.
The judge at the finish said that Stuart had won by a button, which
was near enough the truth. Personally Stuart didn’t care a bit for as
much as five minutes whether he had won at all. But when he could sit
up again and look about him on a hazy world the knowledge brought a
warming satisfaction. A dozen fellows were telling him that he had run
a great race, that he had shown fine generalship and a lot of other
complimentary things, to all of which Stuart listened amiably and in
silence. Then he allowed Tom Hanson to raise him to his feet and some
one else to hold his robe for him; and a pale, panting youth who proved
to be Smiley, shook hands with him and said “Congratulations, Harven,”
and Stuart grinned and answered “Thanks! Ought to have been you,” and,
so far as Stuart was concerned, the Fall Handicap Meet was at an end.
Of course a certain renown accrued to him, and the race was talked
of for a day or two. The Laird tried to get him to promise to keep
on training for the track, promising to make a great miler of him by
the next year, but Stuart shook his head. “It was rather fun,” he
acknowledged, “but I’m through, Laird. I’m not really a track man. Next
year――well, I guess I’ll be playing football again by then.”
A second team player made the statement that “as a football captain
Harven was a great mile runner,” and the _bon mot_ won much favor among
those who were not in sympathy with Stuart’s recent behavior.