AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR
“Here comes the Exter bunch!” was a sudden cry.
There was the shrill, staccato tooting of a “yard of tin,” on the big
tally-ho coach that carried the athletes, their manager and trainers.
Gaily bedecked in ribbons it was, and behind came several other
vehicles, autos and coaches mingling, carrying the crowd of Exter
collegians, who sent cheer after cheer ringing across the grounds of the
park.
“They’re coming in style,” remarked Miss Harrison.
“Wait until you see them go away,” murmured Phil. “They won’t cheer
then.”
“Don’t be too certain,” cautioned Miss Newton.
“That’s all right,” went on Phil. “We’re going to win. I feel it in my
bones.”
“Look at those boys!” interrupted Miss Tyler. “Those Exter chaps I mean.
They’re waving right at us, girls! And we haven’t met any of them. The
audacity!”
“Can’t blame them much, for picking out the prettiest crowd of girls
here,” ventured Tom.
“Oh, thank you!” chorused the four.
“Humph! Those Exterites have their nerve with them all right,” commented
Phil. “I hope we take ’em down a peg.”
“Say, if you fellows are going to take part in the games to-day, get a
move on!” cried Holly Cross, running up at that juncture. “You want to
warm up before the events. Come on! the girls will manage to live
without you for a while, I guess, and you can come back later with
colors flying.”
He bowed and smiled at the pretty quartette, and then Tom and his chums,
once more predicting that they were going to carry the colors of Randall
to the fore, hurried away.
The Exter crowd, after cheering for their three opponents, who, in turn,
cheered the latest arrivals, took their place in the grandstand reserved
for them. The contestants hurried in to get on their togs, which example
was followed by our friends.
“Look well to your shoe lacings,” advised Holly to his crowd of
athletes. “Don’t have anything slipping at the last minute. Has
everybody got everything he needs?”
At once there were cries for various things, from bottles of liniment,
or witch hazel, to strips of adhesive plaster, or wrist straps.
“Say! I never saw such a bunch of babies!” complained Kindlings. “You’d
forget your heads if they weren’t fast.”
He hurried here and there, looking after the lads as if they were
children, unable to do anything for themselves. And, with all this,
Kindlings himself expected to take part in several events, and he had
grimly made up his mind to win some of them, at least.
“There goes the Boxer Hall crowd,” commented Tom, looking from a window
of the dressing room, that gave a view of the field. “They’re out for
practice.”
“See anything of Langridge?” asked Sid.
“Yes, he’s there, and Gerhart, too. I’ve got to run against
him--Langridge I mean.”
“And Gerhart is in the broad jump, I hear,” added Sid. “Well, don’t let
that worry you.”
“I’m not,” replied Tom, as he completed his preparations.
“Come on, fellows, get a move on,” pleaded Holly, and soon those who
were going to fight for the honor of Randall tumbled out of the dressing
rooms, and trotted across the track and field.
“There they are, boys! There they are!” yelled Bean Perkins, wildly
waving a much-beribboned cane at his crowd of shouters. “All together
now! Give ’em, ‘We’re going to beat the three of you, and take your
warlocks home!’”
The song was given with a will, and from then on there was a pandemonium
of sound, as the shouting contingents of the various colleges sought to
put heart and courage into their representatives.
There was a final consultation of the arrangement committee, the
starters, timers, judges were given their instructions, and the
contestants were told to get in readiness. There had been some warm-up
practice, and scores of eager lads were but awaiting the crack of the
pistol.
“Remember boys,” Holly impressed on the Randallites. “We can’t expect to
win every event, but we’ve just got to get five out of the eight to
clinch the championship. We’ve already lost the hurdle race, but if we
get the mile run, the broad jump, the pole vault, a hammer throw and one
other we can win, for they count the most. Get more if you can, but
remember, we need the five.”
Wallace, the Exter manager, passed by, nodding to Holly and the others.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Sure,” answered Holly heartily.
“No bad feelings, I hope, on account of our protest?”
“Not a bit. We’re going to win anyhow; so what’s the difference?”
“Nothing like feeling confident,” commented Wallace, with a laugh.
“Sorry I can’t wish you luck, but we need this championship ourselves.”
“Come on now,” ordered Kindlings, bustling up. “The fifty-six pound
weight throwing comes first. On the job, Dutch. I hope you beat me, and
the same to you Barth.” George Barth had been substituted, some time
back, for Bean Perkins, who said he would be of more service to Randall
cheering for her, than competing in the weight-throwing contest.
“Oh, we’ll win all right,” asserted Dutch Housenlager, with an air of
easy confidence, at which Kindlings shook his head.
There was a silence while the announcer made the statement about the
opening event, and then, as the various contestants came forward, there
were cheers for the representatives of each college.
“Everybody ready?” asked the judge, as he glanced at the twelve
contestants lined up before him, for each college had entered three in
the fifty-six event.
There were nods of assent, and then a coin was flipped to determine the
order of succession. It fell to the lot of Fairview to go first, with
Boxer Hall following, then Exter and finally Randall. Kindlings was
glad of this, for he regarded it as an advantage for his lads to try to
beat the records previously made by their opponents.
The Fairview lads stepped forward. They were husky, clean-cut young
fellows, and as the first one took his place in the white, seven-foot
circle there was a little murmur of applause.
He grasped the weight confidently, and soon had it swinging well. He let
go with a puff of exertion, and watched anxiously as the distance was
measured.
“Eighteen feet four inches,” was the announcement.
“We’re safe so far,” murmured Kindlings for he knew what Dutch could do.
In quick succession the others of Fairview heaved the big ball with its
triangular handle. The record of the first lad was somewhat bettered,
but it was soon seen that Fairview could not hope to win, for the
distances the other contestants had done in practice were fairly well
known.
Boxer Hall bettered Fairview in this contest, her best man’s distance
being twenty-one feet, five and a half inches.
“We’ve got to go some to beat that,” murmured Dutch.
“Oh, you can do it,” declared Kindlings, hoping to put heart into the
big lad.
Now came Exter’s turn, and with confidence her first contestant took
his place. He equalled but did not beat Boxer Hall, and the second man
fell below. Then came the third.
The lad on whom the hopes of Exter now depended was a magnificent
specimen. Tall and fair, a very picture of an athlete, he stooped over
and grasped the handle of the weight. There was a smile on his lips, and
he seemed to look at Dutch as though challenging him individually.
“Go as far as you like, old man,” murmured the Randall representative.
“I’ll catch you.”
There was a gasp of astonishment as the weight sailed away--astonishment
and admiration mingled for, it was easily seen that this throw was, so
far, the record-breaker.
“Wow!” gasped Kindlings as the weight landed. “Look out for yourself,
Dutch.”
“Twenty-eight feet, eight inches!” sung out the score keeper. It was a
good throw, not equaling the best of the amateur records by a foot, but
still very fair.
“Now, Dutch, it’s up to us,” said Kindlings in a low voice. “I’ll go
first, Barth will follow, and you hold yourself for the last. Remember
we’ve _got_ to win!”
“Um!” grunted Dutch, as Kindlings stepped into the circle.
He did not beat the Exter player’s throw, in fact being three feet
behind it, and Barth was but little better.
“Come on, Dutch!” ordered Kindlings, and then from the grandstand came
one of Randall’s songs chorused by Bean Perkins and his throng.
There was a hush as Dutch took up the weight, and as the muscles of his
legs swelled out during the preliminary swinging of it, it seemed as if
he might win, for he was in perfect trim.
Over his head sailed the weight, to fall with a thud on the turf--a thud
that seemed loud amid the hush that followed.
There were anxious faces watching the scorer as he and his assistants
measured the distance, for everything now depended on this record Dutch
had made.
“Twenty-eight feet,” sung out the official, and Dutch felt his heart
sink. “And five inches,” added the scorer. “The weight throwing contest
goes to Exter by three inches, with Randall second.”
There was a riot of cheers from the Exter grandstand, and gloom and
silence on the part of Randall. She had lost the first event.
“He beat me by three inches--three inches,” murmured Dutch, as if he
could not understand it.
“Never mind,” consoled Kindlings. “You did ten inches better than you
ever did in practice, Dutch. It was a great throw, and--Oh, well, we’ve
got a chance yet.”
The preparations for the throwing of the sixteen pound hammer were now
underway. The Jersey twins, Pete Backus, and Holly were entered in this,
and as they had all done well in practice the hopes of Randall ran high.
“Beat ’em, boys, beat ’em!” called Tom Parsons, as the quartette went
forward to meet their opponents. At that moment Wallops, who, with some
of the other Randall messengers, was on the ground approached Tom.
“Your father is looking for you, Mr. Parsons,” he said.
“My--my father?” gasped Tom. “What do you mean? Is he here?”
“Yes, he just arrived. He’s over talking to Dr. Churchill, and the
doctor sent me to find you. Your father wants to see you.”
“Wants to see me,” faltered Tom. There could be but one meaning to the
unexpected visit, he thought. He must leave Randall.