TOM’S RUN
“All right, Wallops, tell him I’ll be right over,” said Tom. “I’ll tell
Kindlings where I’m going, so he won’t be looking for me. But I’ve got
plenty of time before it’s my turn.”
He slipped on a heavy bathrobe, for, in his abbreviated running costume,
he was not exactly in shape to go to the grandstand.
“The lawsuit must have gone against dad, or else he’s come to have me go
back and testify,” reasoned Tom. “If he’s lost the case, it’s good-bye
to Randall for me. But if he wants me to go to court, I’m going to ask
him to wait until after the run. I’m not going to desert now. The case
will have to wait. But I wonder why dad came, instead of telegraphing?
It must be important. I hope nothing else can have happened.”
Anxious thoughts came to Tom, as he made his way through the press of
people. His mother or sister might be ill. It was an inopportune time to
receive bad news--almost on the instant of entering a race that meant
so much to Randall. But Tom made up his mind to do his best under any
circumstances.
“What’s up?” asked Frank, whom Tom passed on his way to see his father.
“My dad’s here,” was the reply. “He came unexpectedly. I don’t know what
it means.”
Frank looked grave, for he knew on how slender a thread hung Tom’s
chances. A moment later our hero saw his father waving his hand to him
from his place beside the president of Randall. Dr. Churchill, and
several members of the faculty, had come to the games, though Professor
Emerson Tines refused to attend.
“Tom!” cried Mr. Parsons as he came down an aisle to meet his son. “I’m
glad to see you, boy. You didn’t expect to find me here; did you?”
“No, dad. Is anything--anything wrong?” Tom could hardly frame the
question. But a look at his father’s face told him that he need have
nothing to fear--at least for the present.
“It’s all right, Tom!” was the hearty answer. “I have good news for you,
and I thought I’d come and tell you myself, instead of wiring. The
lawsuit is ended.”
“And you win?”
“I do. The other fellows simply backed down, and decided not to contest
the case further. They hadn’t a leg to stand on, and they knew it. I
won everything, got back all my money, with interest, and----”
“Then I can stay on at Randall?” interrupted Tom, eagerly.
“You sure can. And look here, Tom. I hear your team lost the first
event.”
“Yes, dad. They out-threw us.”
“Have you competed yet?”
“No. I’m in the mile run. It’s next to the last event.”
“Well, look here, Tom, my boy,” and Mr. Parsons leaned forward and
whispered. “If you don’t win that I’ll never speak to you again, and I
don’t think you’re too big even yet, for me to take over my knee, as I
did once in a while, years ago. So you want to win that race!” and he
laughed and clapped his son on the back.
“Dad, I’m going to win!” was Tom’s answer, given with shining eyes.
“This good news will give me second wind.”
“I rather hoped it would,” said Mr. Parsons. “That’s why I came here on
the first train I could get. Go on now, and--win!”
Tom nodded, and started from the grandstand, while his father again took
his seat near Dr. Churchill. The throwing of the sixteen pound hammer
had already started, with Exter leading off. Her entrants did well, and
so did those of Boxer Hall, and then came the turn of Randall.
“Go to it, Joe! Go to it!” yelled Bean Perkins, as one of the Jersey
twins stepped into the circle. “Come on now, boys, give ’em the ‘hammer
and tongs,’ song.”
It rolled out splendidly as Joe Jackson threw. Perhaps it added to his
strength and skill, for certainly his heave was not beaten that day. It
stands as a record yet in the Tonoka Lake League--one hundred and
twenty-two feet and ten inches--but a short distance less than some of
the best amateur records.
“Randall wins!” came the announcement at the close of this contest, and
Kindlings remarked:
“One of the five!”
The putting of the sixteen pound shot contest was closer than either of
the two previous events. It was a matter of inches to decide the winner,
and there was a claim of a foul on the part of Exter against one of the
Boxer Hall contestants which caused a delay.
“Say, those fellows seem to do nothing but find fault,” remarked Tom to
Phil.
“Yes, they’re afraid they won’t get all that’s coming to ’em, I guess.”
“They will if I have anything to say about it,” commented Tom grimly.
“But maybe they won’t like it.”
The dispute was finally settled and the throwing went on. To Dan’s
chagrin, and the despair of Holly Cross, Randall lost this event by the
narrow margin of one inch. It went to Exter, and there was a riot of
cheers from her supporters.
But the pole vault turned the tables, and Phil hurled himself over the
bar in magnificent style, clearing ten feet seven inches, and winning
the contest. And, as if that was not enough, Ned Warren, another Randall
lad, was but an inch below this, he too beating the best performance of
either of the other three colleges.
“We win twice in this event,” said Holly, who had tied the best man of
Exter in the vault. “If they’d only let us count it twice we’d be all
right.”
“But we’re coming on,” declared Kindlings, and, when the hundred yard
dash also went to the wearers of the maroon and yellow, Bean Perkins
could not contain himself.
“Cut loose, boys! Cut loose!” he ordered, and the “Automobile chorus”
was fairly howled by the delighted cheerers.
“Three out of five events we need,” remarked Holly, as he and Dan were
busy figuring up the points scored. “We may get the high jump, but if we
don’t, and Tom and Sid make good, we’ll win the championship.”
“I hope we win the high,” said Dan. “Berry Foster is in fine trim, and I
don’t like cutting it so fine as to leave the last two events to clinch
things. No telling what may happen to Sid or Tom, though they’re both
feeling fit as fiddles they say. Oh, if we can only get the high!”
“Don’t want everything,” suggested Holly with a laugh. “There they go
for it. Come on over and watch.”
Randall’s lads made a gallant attempt to bring home the high jump, but
it was not to be, and Boxer Hall carried off the coveted trophy, while
her sons sang and cheered themselves hoarse.
There were but two more events on the program--the mile run and the
running broad jump. Randall needed both of these to win, for, should
Exter annex one, and either of the other colleges the other it would
mean that the championship would be lost to the wearers of the maroon
and yellow.
“Now Tom, it’s up to you,” said Dan in a low voice as the runners came
out on their marks. “Are you all right--feel nervous or anything?”
“No, I’m not nervous. I want to win, Dan, but if I don’t----”
“It won’t be from lack of trying,” was the reply. “Go on Tom, they’re
waiting for you.”
But, in spite of the fact that Tom had said he was not nervous there was
an unusual thumping of his heart. He tried to calm himself, but, the
more he did so, the worse he seemed to get.
“Oh, hang it! This won’t do!” he mused. “If Frank was running this race,
he wouldn’t be like this. I must think that I’m doing this for him.
Brace up! Even Shambler wouldn’t flunk.”
Tom felt better after that little lecture to himself by himself, and
when he glanced across toward the grandstands, and saw a slim girlish
figure suddenly spring up, and wave his colors at him, he felt a surge
of elation and delight.
“That’s Madge!” whispered Tom to himself. “I’m going to win! I’m going
to win! For Randall and--her!”
The runners were in their places. The starter had raised his pistol.
Tom, for the first time, noticed that on his left was Langridge--his old
enemy. Langridge had seen Miss Tyler’s action, and he smiled mockingly
at our hero.
“I’m going to win!” Tom told himself over and over again.
“On your marks!” cried the starter.
“They’re going to run!” said Ruth Clinton to Madge, who sat next to her.
“I know it--I know it!” replied Madge nervously. “Oh, I do hope he
wins!”
“Who, Roger Barns?” asked Ruth. “Evidently not though, since you waved
the yellow and maroon.”
“Of course not--you know who I mean,” and Madge blushed.
Crack went the starter’s pistol, and the runners were away on their
course.
“They’re off!” yelled Bean Perkins. “Now boys, the ‘Conquer or Die,’
song, and sing it as you never sang it before. We want Tom to win, and
our other lads to get second and third.”
Our hero, running with all his might, heard the sweet strains wafted to
him across the track, and he shut his lips grimly, and looked at
Langridge out of the corners of his eyes.
The track was a half mile one, two laps being necessary to make the
distance. As it was a big wide one, enabling all the contestants to
start at once, there was no necessity for heats in this event. It could
thus be decided more quickly.
On and on raced Tom. He felt a responsibility he had never experienced
before, and it seemed as if he carried the whole weight of Randall on
his shoulders, though Jerry and Joe Jackson were in the event. Tom was
running well, and he knew he had a reserve of wind and strength for the
final spurt. The last few days of practice had done much for him, and
even his unfortunate illness had not pulled him down.
It was evident, soon after the start of the race, that it lay between
Tom Parsons, Langridge of Boxer Hall and Sam Wendell of Exter. That was
unless some of those who were strung out behind them should develop
unexpected speed. And this was not likely.
A mile run is a matter of only seven minutes, or thereabouts, at the
worst, for any performance slower than seven minutes and thirty-eight
seconds scores nothing under the A. A. U. rules. And so the decision of
the contest could not be long in doubt.
At the conclusion of the half mile Tom and Langridge were on even terms.
The foremost Exter lad had fallen back a few feet, and Tom’s only fear
was lest this contestant might be saving himself for a winning spurt.
“But I can spurt too!” thought our hero. “I’m going to win! I’m going to
win!”
On and on they raced. Nearer and nearer to the goal they came. Breaths
were coming faster and faster. It became harder and harder to get air
into the laboring lungs. The weary muscles needed more and more urging
to make them do their work.
“Can I do it? Can I do it?” Tom asked himself.
And the grim answer came.
“I’ve got to! I’ve got to!”
There was a mist before his eyes, and yet through it he seemed to see a
fair, girlish figure waving a maroon and yellow flag at him. But the
colors were blurred.
A singing came into Tom’s ears. It sounded like the beating of the waves
of the sea. His heart was a pump, working at double speed. His legs
were like the pistons of some engine, darting back and forth. They did
not seem to belong to him, but to be separate from his body.
Once or twice he thought of looking down, to make sure that they were
fast to his trunk, but he knew he must keep his eyes ahead of him, and
his head well up. Now and then he glanced across to where Langridge was
running. The Boxer Hall lad was still in his place, even with Tom. The
foremost Exter runner was still lagging behind.
“I’ve got to shake him off--shake Langridge,” thought Tom, and it seemed
as if he was someone else saying this.
The finish tape loomed in sight. The eager judges and timekeepers
crowded to the course. Now was the time to spurt if ever.
“Come on, Tom! Come on!” yelled scores of encouraging voices, and once
more Bean Perkins and his cohorts sang a song of victory.
“Langridge! Langridge!” cried his mates, and the Exter lad’s fellows
shouted to him to win.
On and on raced Tom. It seemed as if he could not keep it up. His legs
were senseless--his feet like lead--his breath was all but gone.
“But I must do it! I must--for the honor of Randall!” he seemed to
shout, yet no sound came from between his lips.
“Now!” yelled Holly Cross, who was watching Tom. “Come!”
It was the signal to spurt, and Tom put out his last ounce of strength
in the leap forward. He breasted the tape, and, as he crossed the line
he shot a hasty glance to either side.
He was alone! Langridge had faltered at the last. The Exter man was a
poor third.
Tom had won the mile run!