FRED FENTON MARATHON RUNNER
The Great Race at Riverport School
By Allen Chapman
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CONTENTS
CHAPTERS
I. In the Snow
II. The Battle Between Old Rivals
III. Up the Mohunk on an Ice-boat
IV. The Rescue, and a Mystery
V. Looking Over the Course
VI. The Wild Dog Pack
VII. The Short-Cut Way
VIII. The Tell-Tale Pin
IX. At the Toll-Gate
X. Bristles' Surprise Party
XI. On the Green Campus
XII. Laying Plans
XIII. The Muffled Voice
XIV. A Plot That Failed
XV. Clinching Evidence
XVI. Telling Bristles
XVII. Lining Up for the Trial Spin
XVIII. Caught by the Storm
XIX. The Boy in the Haymow
XX. When the Circus Came to Riverport
XXI. The Greatest of Days
XXII. "They're Off!"
XXIII. The Marathon Runners
XXIV. When Duty Called
XXV. The Victory---Conclusion
CHAPTER I
IN THE SNOW
"Now then, let's see who can put a shot through that round hole in the
tree-trunk up there. Take a try, Sid."
"Must be twenty yards away from here, if a foot, eh, Bristles?"
"More like twenty-five to me, Colon; and looks farther than from first
base to third, on the diamond."
"Line up, everybody, and we'll soon find out who takes the cake at making
a center shot. But hadn't we better bar out Fred Fenton?"
"What for, Bristles?"
"Why, because he's the regular pitcher on the Riverside High School nine:
he's used to putting 'em over the plate for a steady diet."
"That's a fact, and Fred, you'll have to consider yourself handicapped in
this little contest of skill."
"Anyhow, wait till we've had our fling, Fred; and then if nobody seems to
get a bull's-eye, you might show us how to do the job."
"All right, boys, that suits me. And while you bombard that poor old
tree, I'll be amusing myself making one good firm snowball, against the
time my turn comes."
"Go at it, fellows! There, did you see me smack one just a foot below
the hole? Gee! that was a sure-enough dandy hit of yours, Bristles;
closer by six inches than mine. Everybody put your best licks in!"
The hard balls flew thick and furiously, for it happened that the rather
heavy fall of snow was just moist enough to be easily pressed into the
finest of missiles for boyish use.
Many of these swiftly thrown balls missed the tree-trunk entirely.
Others splattered here and there against the bark, leaving a tell-tale
white mark. A few came dangerously near the yawning opening; but not a
single one thus far had managed to disappear within the gap.
The boy who had been called Fred Fenton, having manipulated a single
snowball in his hands, stood there watching the onslaught, and
occasionally speaking words of encouragement to those who were taking
part in the spirited contest.
"That was a corker, Sid Wells, and it would have done the business if
you'd only put an ounce more of speed in your throw, so as to have raised
it three inches. Good boy, Brad, you left a mark just alongside the
hole, so some of it must have spattered in the hollow! Not quite so
fierce, Bristles; that one would have landed, if you'd been a little less
powerful in your throw!"
Presently some of the boys began to grow weary of the sport.
"What's the use of our trying to hit that mark so far away?" grumbled
Bristles; which expression of defeat was something strange to hear from
his lips, because the owner of the shock of heavy hair that stood
upright, and had gained him such a peculiar nick-name, was as a rule very
stubborn, and ready to stick to the very end.
"Let Fred show us how!" suggested Sid Wells, who was known as the
particular chum of the pitcher, he being the son of a retired professor,
now engaged in wonderful experiments which might some day astonish the
world.
The rest of the boys seemed ready to join in the chorus, and make way for
the ball flinger. They had watched this same Fred send his dazzling
shots over the plate with such wonderful speed and accuracy that he held
the strike-out record for the high school league.
"Remember I'm hardly in practice just now," Fred told them, laughingly;
"though Sid and myself have been putting over a few, just to warm up
these days when it feels as if Spring might be flirting with Winter. On
that account I hope you won't expect too much from me; and give me three
chances to make a bull's-eye."
"Sure we will, Fred!" exclaimed Bristles.
"Take six if you want to," added the generous Colon, who was a very
long-legged fellow, a magnificent sprinter, with a peculiar habit of
leaping as he ran, that often reminded people of the ungainly jumps of a
kangaroo. But he nearly always "got there with the goods."
"No, three ought to be plenty!" declared Fred, as he prepared to send his
first one in.
It struck just below the edge of the opening, being really a better shot
than any of the scores that had marked the tree-trunk up to that time.
The rest of the half dozen boys gave a shout.
"Clipped the edge of the plate that time, Fred!" cried Bristles, whose
real name was Andy Carpenter.
"Two inches higher, and it would have gone straight in. Now you've found
the rubber, strike him out, Fred. You can do it! I ought to know,
because haven't I been your backstop many a time, and watched them spin
straight across?" and Sid Wells handed his chum a ball he had squeezed
into a shape that was as nearly round as anything could be, and also as
hard as ice.
Bristles, too, presented his contribution, so that the candidate for
honors stood there with a missile in each hand. He looked carefully at
the trees as though measuring the distance and height with that practiced
eye of his. Then they saw him draw back his arm after the same manner in
which he delivered the ball during an exciting part of a hotly contested
game of ball.
The shot went true to the mark, and as they saw it vanish in the cavity,
a shout arose from the five boys. This burst out in redoubled violence
when, as quick as a flash, Fred sent the second snowball exactly after
the first, so that it too went straight into the dark hole.
While they continue to express their delight, by shouts, and slapping
Fred on the back, perhaps it might be well to say a few words concerning
Fred Fenton and his friends.
They were all Riverport boys, and attended the high school there. Fred
and two of the others were taking a post graduate course, meaning to
enter college during the following season.
In the pages of the first volume of this series, entitled "_Fred Fenton,
the Pitcher_," we had the pleasure of making the acquaintance of most of
the boys who were to play prominent parts in the events taking place
along the banks of the Mohunk River, where two other towns,
Mechanicsburg, three miles up, and Paulding, seven miles down the river,
were rivals of Riverport.
Turning from baseball, as the Summer waned, the boys of Riverport
naturally took to the gridiron, and their struggles for supremacy with
rival teams are to be found in the second story, called: "_Fred Fenton in
the Line_."
When Summer came again, other sports took the energetic lads of the river
town by storm. With such splendid opportunities for boating, as were
presented by the Mohunk River, of course they availed themselves of the
chance to again enter into competition with those whose one ambition
seemed to be to defeat Riverport. These lively encounters are set forth
in the pages of the third volume, entitled "_Fred Fenton on the Crew_."
The next Winter the three towns became so filled with enthusiasm over the
great advantages of athletic training, that fine gymnasiums were
organized through public subscription. In time a meet had been
organized, and there were some fierce struggles for supremacy between the
rival towns. Just how the boys of Riverport carried themselves in these
exciting happenings, and what measure of success perched on their banner,
you will find narrated in the pages of the fourth volume, just preceding
this book, under the title of "_Fred Fenton on the Track_."
The Winter had now almost reached its conclusion, though some of the boys
who claimed to be weather-wise declared that they would very likely have
just one more cold snap before the final break-up.
They hoped it might be severe enough to give them a last chance to skate
upon the Mohunk, and use their ice-boat again. The ice had become pretty
"punky," as Bristles called it, with numerous airholes that threatened
disaster in case one went too close, so that for several days Fred and
his chums had avoided the river.
This trip up into the woods on Saturday afternoon had been taken just to
enjoy the first real tramp of the season, and to get together to talk of
plans for the coming Spring athletics. As boys can never resist the
temptation to throw snowballs when the moist white covering seems just
suited to such conditions, every little while one of them discovered some
sort of target at which they could exercise their skill.
Once it had been a venturesome bluejay that had wintered near the Mohunk;
but the wary bird was awing before the first snowball struck near its
perch. Then a crow dared them, and fled amidst a shower of missiles and
uproarious shouts, each fellow claiming that it must have been his shot
that had struck the limb just where the cawing bird had been sitting.
They were possibly two miles from town, and in the midst of the Budge
woods, a section that always had a certain charm for the boys of both
Riverport and Mechanicsburg, as it lay half-way between the two towns,
and not far from the river.
Which brief but necessary digression again brings us to the occasion when
Fred's chums were applauding his double hit, after he had sent two
successive snowballs so cleverly into the hole Bristles had selected as a
mark.
"Same old accuracy," chanted Colon.
"I'm sorry for poor Paulding, and the other town above us, when Fred
steps into the box again this year. He's got 'em as straight as a rifle
ball. No trouble for him to put three over when he's in a hole."
Sid Wells had hardly said this when something came to pass that was
entirely unexpected by the six Riverport boys. Through the air a cloud
of solid icy balls came hurtling with what seemed like an angry hiss.
Some struck around them, spattering against the tree-trunks with loud
thuds; but several, being better aimed, came in contact with the persons
of the astonished boys, producing more or less of a stinging sensation,
as icy balls are apt to do.