A HOT RUN.
Soon it became evident that Bruce Browning had not lost his old-time
push entirely. When there was something to arouse him, he could bestir
himself and get to work in a marvelous manner, as long as it was not
necessary for him to again go into training.
Browning knew Paul Pierson, who was one of the committee of arrangements
for the coming tournament, and he knew that Pierson was well aware of
Frank Merriwell's general ability. Bruce had heard Pierson express a
belief that Merriwell was one of the persons who, by sheer determination
and sand, as well as ability, was bound to win in almost everything he
attempted.
Bruce went to Pierson immediately after leaving Merriwell's room.
Pierson was one of the sort who seldom said much, and Browning left him
without knowing whether he had made an impression or not.
Late that afternoon, however, Pierson accidentally met Frank, who was
crossing the campus.
"I say, Merriwell," said Paul, in his abrupt manner, "can you run?"
"Some," answered Frank, sententiously.
"Hum!" grunted Pierson.
Then he looked Frank all over, as if he had never seen him before and
was taking his physical measure.
"You keep yourself in the very best condition all the time, I see," he
finally observed.
"Well I seldom do anything to abuse myself."
"Are you in training for a race?"
"Not exactly."
"How long would it take for you to put yourself in condition?"
"Possibly a week."
"What are you good for--a short dash, or a long run?"
"I think I can do either fairly well."
"Fairly well does not go at Yale, as you know, Merriwell. You must do
things exceptionally well. You are altogether too modest. If something
had not brought you out, nobody could have known you could do anything
at all. You have been pushed in various ways by others, but you fail to
push yourself."
"Oh, I do not go about blowing my own horn," said Frank, smiling.
"You will find you'll have to blow your own horn when you go into
business, or my brother is a liar. He keeps hammering at me that the man
who does not blow his horn is the fellow who gets left. To a large
extent, it is that way here at Yale. The fellow who keeps still and sits
back gets left. That's my sermon. I'm not going to say any more now. Get
into training for a long run. I'll come round at nine this evening and
go you a sprint of a mile or two, just to see how you show up."
That was all. Pierson turned and sauntered away, without another word.
Frank whistled softly, and smiled.
"This is Browning's work," he muttered. "Pierson takes things for
granted. How does he know I will take any part in a race? He does not
ask if I will, but he tells me to go to work and get into shape. He is
coming round to-night to see how I show up. All right."
At ten minutes of nine that evening, Paul Pierson rapped on the door of
Merriwell's room, and was invited to walk in. He was in a rig for
running, and he immediately said:
"Come, come! get out of those duds, Merriwell. You are to run with me
to-night."
"How far?"
"From one to five miles, as I take a fancy."
"Oh, well, I won't change my clothes for a little thing like that," said
Frank, carelessly.
"You'd better," declared Paul. "I'm going to give you a hustle, and
you'll find you can keep up better if you are in a suitable rig."
"I'll take the chances of keeping just as I am."
Pierson's teeth came together with a click. He did not like that,
although he tried not to show it.
"The fellow thinks he can outrun me on a long pull, as he happened to do
so for a short distance once on a time," he thought. "I'll see if I can
fool him."
Pierson considered himself an excellent long-distance runner, although
he seldom took part in races, realizing that, good though he was, there
were still better men.
Frank had on a loose thin shirt, and a light-weight suit of clothes. He
caught up a cap, and announced that he was ready to go with Paul.
They went out, and soon were crossing the campus. Having arrived at a
point quite outside the college grounds, Paul paused and said:
"We will start from here and make a run out into the country. I will set
the pace going out, but when we turn to come back, it will be a case of
the best man gets home first. The termination of the run will be your
room."
"That is satisfactory," nodded Frank.
Far away a band of jolly students were singing "Stars of the Summer
Night," their melodious voices making sweet music beneath the great
elms. The soft breath of June came across the campus, seeming to gently
bear the words of the beautiful song to their ears.
"Are you ready?" asked Pierson, sharply.
"All ready."
"Then here we go."
They were off, shoulder to shoulder.
Although Frank had not seemed to prepare for the run, he had put on his
running shoes, feeling that he might absolutely need them.
Along the streets of New Haven they went, attracting but little
attention, as it was not an uncommon sight at that season to see some of
the college lads taking a night run in that manner.
They passed a group of fellows who were standing beneath a street light
near a corner.
"Here!" softly exclaimed one of the group; "who are these chaps?"
The entire party turned to take a look at the runners.
"It's Pierson----"
"And Merriwell!"
"What did I tell you, Yates!" exclaimed Fred Flemming, a ring of
satisfaction in his voice.
"Well, may I be kicked!" growled Duncan Yates, as he started after the
two lads, who had passed and were scudding along the street at a steady
trot.
"Flem seldom makes a mistake," murmured Tom Thornton.
"But Merriwell is not in his rig," said Andy Emery, the fourth one of
the group.
"That doesn't make any difference," declared Flemming. "He is taking a
run with Pierson, and that proves what I told Yates. You all know how
that chap undermined me on the crew. I don't say that he can't row, mind
you--I do not claim that I could have done any better than he did; but I
do claim that he is full of such sneaking underhand tricks, and I knew
he was trying for something when I saw him stop Pierson on the campus
to-day."
Yates was silent, staring along the street, down which the two runners
had disappeared.
"Come, old man!" cried Flemming, slapping Yates on the back, "let's go
into Morey's and sit down, where we can have a drink and talk this
matter over."
Duncan shook his head.
"I won't go in there," he said.
"Why not?"
"I am in training, you know, and somebody would see me drinking there.
That would kick up some talk."
"Well, will you go anywhere?"
"Yes, I'll go somewhere that we can sit down in a quiet room, where
there is no chance that fellows who know me will drop in. I feel just
like having something."
"I know the very place," declared Flemming. "Come on."
Then the quartet moved away, Flemming leading.
In the meantime Merriwell and Pierson had continued on their way. As had
been agreed, Pierson set the pace. At first he ran along at a gentle
trot, but by the time the outskirts of New Haven were reached he had
begun to increase his speed.
"Now," he thought, "I'll put Merriwell to the test, and I do not fancy
he will be in condition to make a very hot run on the return."
Faster and faster went Paul, and still the lad at his side kept there
with apparent ease. With their clinched hands held close to their
breasts and their heads thrown back, they ran on and on.
There was a slice of a moon in the western sky, shedding a thin white
light over the world. From far to the south came the shrill whistle of a
locomotive, cutting through the air like a keen knife.
The road which Pierson had selected was one over which there was
considerable travel, and it was in very fair condition.
Without appearing to do so, Paul slyly kept watch of Merriwell, wishing
to see just how Frank stood the strain. He was forced to acknowledge
that, for a time at least, Merriwell was standing it very well.
"Oh, he is endeavoring to show me how easy he can do it!" mentally
exclaimed Paul. "Wait--wait a bit! I think I will give him a hot push
for a bit."
Faster and faster ran Pierson, and soon he was rather gratified to hear
Frank beginning to breathe heavily. Yes, although Paul had hoped that
Merriwell would show up well, he did feel a momentary sense of
satisfaction when it seemed that he was making the pace a hot one for
his companion.
Then Frank began to lag. He did not fall far behind Paul, and still he
seemed unable to keep his place at Pierson's side.
"I won't do a thing to him coming back!" decided Paul. "Browning was
dead wrong. The fellow is capable of short dashes, but he is not the man
for a long run. I am rather sorry."
At last, he decided that they had gone far enough into the country, and
so he turned about, without stopping, calling to Frank:
"Now for the hustle into town, and let's see what you are made of, my
boy. I am going to run away from you as if you were standing still."
"I wouldn't do that!" flung back Merriwell, as he wheeled about.
Somehow it seemed to Paul that there was a touch of sarcasm in the way
Frank uttered the words. That aroused the committeeman still more, and
he retorted:
"No, you wouldn't do it, because you couldn't; but I am going to."
"All right," laughed Frank. "I don't suppose there is any danger that
somebody will steal me for my beauty if you leave me alone out here in
the country. Go ahead and run away from me."
"Good-by."
"Good-by."
Then Pierson did run. He skimmed over the ground in a wonderful manner,
but the sound of running feet clung close behind him, and, when he
glanced over his shoulder, Merriwell was still there.
"Hanged if he doesn't hold on well!" mentally exclaimed Paul.
Then, as he glanced around, it began to seem that Merriwell was running
with still greater ease than he had at any previous time. Somehow it
appeared as if he was keeping close behind Pierson without any
particular effort.
"You're doing well," Paul finally flung over his shoulder. "Can you keep
it up?"
"I think so," was the half-laughing answer. "I am holding myself in so
that I can make an attempt to follow you a short distance when you get
ready to run away from me."
"Great smoke!" thought Paul. "Is he guying me? or does he fancy I have
not been doing my best?"
After a little, he confessed:
"I am beginning to think that won't be an easy trick, Merriwell. You
will not be far behind when we reach your room."
At this, Frank suddenly came up beside Paul.
"Judging by the way you talk, you are somewhat out of wind," he said.
"Not at all," declared Pierson.
"Then I presume you are in condition for a little dash?"
"Oh, of course! But you may beat yourself out if you crowd yourself too
hard."
"Think so?"
"Sure. Better not."
"Oh, I think I'll chance it. Come on, old man, let's tear up some dust."
Then Frank spurted.
Pierson set his teeth and made a desperate effort to keep up, but,
despite his determination not to fall behind, he found that Merriwell
was steadily and surely drawing away.
"Come on," called Frank, in a rather tantalizing manner. "It can't be
that you are going to let me run away from you?"
Paul did not answer.
"What's the matter?" called Frank again. "Are you ill?"
Still no answer.
"Well, you are not sociable at all," laughed the lad in advance,
tauntingly. "I don't seem to like your company, and so I think I will
move along. Good-by."
With that, Pierson could see that the tantalizing fellow actually made
an increase of speed.
"Confound him!" grated Paul. "I believe he was fooling me all along when
he seemed to be having a hard time to keep up. All that panting and
heavy breathing was put on."
It was decidedly humiliating to be "jollied" in such a manner; but Paul
found he could not hold his own with Frank, and he finally gave up the
struggle. Still he continued to run on, thinking that the lad ahead
would use up his wind by such a burst of speed, and believing there was
a possibility of overtaking Merriwell before South Middle was reached.
This did not happen, however, and when Paul burst into Frank's room, he
found Rattleton there, listening to a funny story that Merriwell was
telling.
And Merriwell? He had his feet resting comfortably on the top of a
table, while he lay back in an easy-chair, looking remarkably cool, as
if he had not lately made a run of several miles.
More than that, he had changed his clothes, as the suit he had on was
not the same he had worn during the run!
Paul staggered in, and dropped limply on the couch, staring at Frank, as
if he saw a ghost.
"Look--here--Merriwell," he panted, "what--are--you--made--of?
Are--you--run--by--steam?"
"Oh, no!" laughed Frank. "I beg your pardon for leaving you in such a
manner, but you know you had become so very unsociable that I had to
do----"
Pierson made a weak gesture, and interrupted with:
"Don't apologize for that--it was the agreement that one should run away
from the other, if possible, on the way back. You had a right to do it."
"What is all this about?" asked Rattleton, in a mystified manner. "What
have you fellows been doing?"
"Don't you know?" cried Paul, amazed.
"No, I don't know," declared Rattleton. "Frank walked into the room a
short time ago, went into his bedroom, took a sponge bath and changed
his clothes, and we have been telling stories since then."
"Took a sponge bath?" shouted Pierson, popping bolt upright.
"Jerusalem. You talk as if he had been here half an hour! I will admit
that this beats anything I ever experienced!"
Then he flopped down on the couch again, as if utterly overcome.