“WHAT’S TO BE DONE?”
For perhaps five seconds no one spoke after Frank had announced his
decision, a decision that meant more to him than anyone suspected. Then
there came a spontaneous cheer--a cheer for the lad who could sacrifice
himself for the honor of his college.
“What’s the matter with Frank Simpson?” again demanded Bean Perkins.
Instantly came the answer:
“He’s all right!”
“Tiger!” yelled the irrepressible Bean, and the yellow-striped cheer was
given with a will.
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing else to be done,” spoke Holly,
regretfully.
“Nothing,” replied Frank, and the wonder of it was that he could smile.
“Nothing but to accept my withdrawal, and so inform the committee from
Exter.”
“And then we’ve got to get busy and see who we can put in your place,
and Shambler’s,” added Kindlings.
The resignation was formally accepted, and word was sent to Wallace and
his friends. They expressed their regret at the necessity, and even
admitted that perhaps a ruling from the A. A. U. might bear out Frank’s
contention that he was not a professional.
“But we haven’t time for it,” said Holly. “We’ll take our medicine,
though it’s a bitter pill to swallow.”
“I hope you don’t think we did this because of any fear on our part that
we couldn’t win against your two men,” spoke the Exter manager.
“Not at all,” Holly assured him. “I appreciate your position, but it’s
tough on us, to lose two good men. I can’t get over that cad Shambler.”
“He certainly played a mean part,” agreed Wallace. “This Simpson’s case
is altogether different. I’m sorry for him.”
“We all are,” put in Kindlings. “Well, we’ve got a little time left in
which to make good. I’m glad we don’t have to go into the games
to-morrow.”
“Not wishing you any bad luck,” spoke the Exter lad, with a frank laugh,
“I hope we beat you.”
“Randall is hard to beat,” spoke Holly grimly. “You’ll find us on the
job when the time comes.”
But when the protesting committee had left the boys of Randall looked
at each other with troubled eyes.
“What’s to be done?” was the general question.
No one could answer.
“Of course we’ve got to go on and play the game,” declared Holly Cross.
“We’ve a few days in which to select some lads to take the places of
Shambler and Frank. Oh, why couldn’t it have been someone else? This
leaves the mile run and the broad jump open, and we were counting on
those two contests especially. Of the others I’m not so much afraid. But
who are we going to enter for those contests?”
“We’re going to lose, I think,” said Jerry Jackson mournfully.
“That’s right--lose,” echoed his twin.
“Say, you fellows make me tired!” exploded Kindlings. “We’re _not_ going
to lose!”
“That’s the way to talk, but how do you figure it out?” asked Holly.
“Who’ll substitute for Shambler and Frank?”
“Sid Henderson will have to make the jump, and Tom Parsons, we’ll depend
on you for the mile run!” answered Dan quickly.
“Who, me? I can never beat the Exter man in the jump,” asserted Sid.
“Say, don’t you talk back to me!” retorted Kindlings, and there was a
new note in his voice. “I tell you you’re going to do it! Where’s
Parsons?”
“Here,” answered Tom meekly.
“You get into practice quick for that mile run,” ordered Dan. “You’ve
got to do it. Sid, get into your togs at once. Holly, come on out and
hold the watch on Tom. I’ll see Moses and make it all right about
lectures. We’re in a hole and we’ve got to pull ourselves out.”
At once it seemed as if new spirit had settled down over Randall. There
had been gloom, following the withdrawal of Shambler and Frank, but with
the manly way in which Kindlings met the situation the skies seemed to
clear.
It was the only way out of the dilemma. But everyone knew that, at best,
it was but a slim chance. Neither Tom nor Sid were brilliant performers,
though that is not saying they were to be despised, by any means. Their
talents simply lay in other directions than track athletics. Yet they
were not far behind Frank and Shambler in the two events. They needed
hard training, however, and the question was, could they get in form in
the short time left?
“They’ve got to!” declared Kindlings grimly. “It’s going to be
train--train--train! from now to the minute of the games. It means a lot
of practice--hard practice. Oh, if we only had a week more! Why didn’t
this come a little sooner?”
“Is there any chance of getting a postponement?” asked Phil. “I think
under the circumstances we’re entitled to it.”
“Entitled to it, yes, maybe,” assented Dan, “but we won’t crawl by
asking for it. We’ll take our medicine, and take it like men, and,
what’s more, we’ll turn the trick, too!”
The squad of athletes was ordered out soon after the momentous meeting.
Dr. Churchill met the situation squarely. He gave the boys all the
leeway needed in the matter of attending lectures, and wrote a personal
letter to the heads of Exter, Boxer Hall and Fairview, expressing regret
at the turn of affairs.
And then Randall grimly set to work on her uphill climb.
That it was to be an uphill climb was soon made very evident. Whether it
was because of nervousness, or real inability to make good, or because
they were so suddenly called on without adequate preparation, was not
made evident, but certain it was that neither Tom nor Sid gave brilliant
performances in the trials that followed. Tom’s time was far behind that
of Shambler in the mile run, and, though it was only a matter of
seconds, everyone knew that seconds would count.
Sid, too, seemed to have lost his natural ability to cover ground in
the big jump, though he was by far the best man available after Frank’s
disbarment.
“This won’t do,” declared Holly, and though his heart was sinking, he
kept up a bold front. “Get at it, boys,” he urged the two on whom so
much depended. “You can make good yet! All you need is to think so.”
“It’s easy enough to say,” complained Tom, who was tired from many
trials.
“Say, if you don’t win, I’ll roll you in the mud so your best girl won’t
speak to you for a month,” threatened Kindlings. “And, as for you, Sid,
I’ll have you run out of Randall on a rail. So make good--both of you!”
“Um!” grunted Tom, disconsolately, and Sid looked at him with despair in
his eyes. They were both in a bad way.
There was but one more day before the games. It dawned--or rather, to
quote Holly Cross, “it clouded up beautifully” from the start. There was
a chill, in the air, too.
“Tumble out!” cried Kindlings, as he banged on the door of the room
where the inseparables were sleeping. “Tom--Sid, we need you for some
morning practice.”
“Oh, go on away,” begged Tom.
“Let me dream on,” requested Sid, drowsily.
“Tumble out!” shouted the inexorable Kindlings. “This is your last
chance. It’s a nice cool morning for a run or a jump, and you’ll be all
the better for it. Come on.”
So, perforce, the substitutes who were to fill in for Frank and Shambler
“tumbled out,” literally, for they were half asleep. But a shower bath,
a brisk rub, and the cheerful talk of Holly and Kindlings put new life
into them, and soon they were at vigorous practice. They did better than
on the previous day.
“If we only had another week, or even three days, I wouldn’t be a bit
worried,” declared Holly at the conclusion of the trials. “They’re both
doing fine, Kindlings.”
“I don’t s’pose we can get an extension?”
“I wouldn’t have the nerve to ask for it.”
“Then we’ll have to stand or fall as we are.”
“That’s it--hang together or hang separately as Patrick Henry, or some
of the ancients, said,” quoted Holly.
The excitement over the unexpected charges had somewhat died away, and
Randall was more like herself. The withdrawal of Shambler had created a
little flurry, but not much. No one seemed to know where he had gone,
and no word came as to what to do with his effects.
As for Frank, he was saddened, but not downcast. He announced his
intention of taking up his case with the Amateur Athletic Union as soon
as the games were completed.
“I’m sure they’ll uphold my contention,” he declared. “I’m an amateur,
and I can prove it!”
“But it will be too late for any use,” spoke Tom mournfully.
Words of sympathy had come from the girls, and Tom and his chums were
duly grateful for them. It developed that neither Boxer Hall nor
Fairview were in favor of forcing the issue against Randall, but that
Exter, with perhaps exaggerated notions as to what constituted “amateur”
sport, had taken the initiative. Still Randall’s lads did not complain.
It was the night before the big games. Gathered in the room of the
inseparables were our old friends, Holly, Kindlings, Dutch, and a few
other kindred spirits.
“Well, it’s all over but the shouting,” said Dutch, in mournful tones.
“To-morrow will tell the tale.”
“Get out, you old croaker!” cried Kindlings.
“We’re going to win! I’m sure of it!”
“If we had another week, I believe we would,” asserted Holly. “Tom and
Sid could pull up by then. I’m almost tempted to telephone, even at this
late day, and ask for a postponement. We’re entitled to it, under the
circumstances.”
“Oh, forget it,” advised Phil. “Be a sport! Play the game!”
“Just the same I wish something would happen to put things off until
next Saturday,” insisted Holly.
“It’s too late now,” declared Kindlings. “We’ve got to take part
to-morrow unless----”
He stopped suddenly, and held up his hand.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom, curiously.
“Hark!” exclaimed Dan. “What’s that noise?”