So first came "The Queen, God bless her."

Then "The President, God help him," as Tom piously ejaculated.

We drank to the two teams, good winners and plucky losers both, and then

to the flags.

"I have nothing against the other bits of bunting," declared Tom,

generously; "but what is the use of having more than two? Let us arrange

it now. The Union Jack shall fly over the eastern, and the Stars and

Stripes over the western hemisphere. The Frenchman, German, and Russian

shall take what is left."

"That leaves them the sea," I interposed.

"The sea!" cried Tom; "why, that is ours already beyond dispute."

It was just at midnight that we drank our last toast with all the

honors. It was the "Anglo-Saxon Race." May its two great nations never

meet in sterner conflict than that fought out in friendliness, on green

field and brown cinder-path, under a smiling sky!

[Illustration: First For Money]

It was late in the winter of 186- that I arrived in Boston, having bade

farewell to Old England for good and all.

It was not an easy thing to do, and it was with a wrench of the heart

that I made the break-away.

I confess the separation was not entirely of my own choosing, that I

left under a cloud I do not care to lift, that I had sinned the sins of

youth and repented of them. Nothing more shall I say; but one thing I

can never quite forget,--back in old Lancashire was I gentleman born and

bred.

When I landed, less than fifty dollars had I in my pocket; but that did

not fret me, for I had been assured an Englishman of good birth and

breeding had but to pick and choose in the "States." All my money and

most of my conceit were gone when I met Arthur Hacking a month later.

I had first stopped at a good hotel, and offered my services at genteel

occupations, such as banking and school-teaching. But business men,

very naturally, declined to trust a man without references who admitted

that his past was not clear; and from school-teaching I was prohibited

by a lamentable weakness in both mathematics and the languages. Indeed,

I then realized for the first time that there were more important

schools than that of the "cinder-path," and something more was needed to

get on in the world than a highly cultivated pair of legs.

As my money disappeared my ideas moderated. I moved to less and less

pretentious quarters, until an attic-room and a sickly fire became

luxuries I was likely soon to miss.

As if it were yesterday do I remember the raw March morning, when,

having spent a few cents out of my only remaining dollar, I set out to

make a last desperate effort for employment other than that of the

horny-handed son of toil. At noon I stood on the corner of Washington

street and Cornhill, utterly at a loss what to do. My overcoat was in

pawn, and an east wind, such as Boston only knows, was freezing my very

marrow. The streets were full of half-melted snow and ice, and my feet

were wet and cold.

As I stood there with much of the feeling and something of the attitude

of a lost dog, I suddenly recognized a man to whom I had applied a few

days before for a position as bookkeeper. I stopped him and asked

bluntly for work of any kind. He offered me a job as day laborer,

cutting ice on some pond several miles away; for he was the manager of

an ice company. I should have accepted at once had he not, with true

Yankee shrewdness, argued from my evident necessity and unskilfulness

that I should work for less than a regular day's pay. At this I

demurred, but should certainly have yielded had not Hacking, by some

freak of fortune, passing by, caught in my speech the accents of the

"old Shire."

He introduced himself without ceremony, and taking me by the arm, led me

away, telling the ice-cutter to go to a place where the climate would

give him no occupation, unless he changed his business.

Hacking was a big, bluff chap with a red face, and not a bit of the

Yankee about him, though he was then some ten years over. When he

offered me his friendship, and suggested that we could talk better in a

warm place, and after a lunch, you may be sure I did not refuse him. My

heart and stomach were alike empty.

All through my disappointments a stiff upper lip had I kept, but this

first bit of kindness was almost too much for me, and I nearly played

the woman for all my twenty years.

We adjourned to the "Bell-in-hand," where I told as little as possible

of my story to him, between alternate mouthfuls of cold beef and

swallows of old ale.

I confessed to him I was "dead broke," and could find no employment;

that is, no employment for which I was fitted. He asked me for what I

was fitted, and I told him I was blessed if I knew; that as near as I

could discover day labor was about all I was good for. He clapped me on

the back with a "Never say die, my lad!" but could think of no

suggestion which promised me any relief, and finally invited me to drive

home with him. He owned a little inn at Brighton, and promised me food

and shelter for a few days until I could "gather myself together."

That this very necessary feat could be performed in a "few days" I very

much doubted; but the invitation I accepted gratefully, and five o'clock

found me sitting beside him on the narrow seat of a light carriage, my

portmanteau tied on behind.

The road to Brighton was a very decent one, and the big roan mare he

drove reeled off the miles in a way that opened my eyes to the

possibilities of the trotting horse. I doubt if there was her equal in

all England.

A clock was striking six when we stopped before the door of the

"Traveller's Rest," and I slid off the seat on to the frozen ground, my

legs so stiff that I could scarcely walk.

It was a large white house, with green blinds, and a piazza with tall

white pillars in front. Cosy enough it seemed, too, with its lighted

windows and its smell of hot meats; while from the bar in the corner

came the sounds of a jingling piano and a good voice singing an Old

Country ballad of "Jack and his Susan."

I found the inside of the house as comfortable as the outside looked

inviting, and it was after a better dinner than I had eaten for many

days that I sat with Hacking in a little parlor off the bar, my feet

toasting at a coal fire, taking a comforting pipe and an occasional sip

of the "necessary."

It did not take me long to find that Hacking was most interested in

sporting matters, and our conversation gradually harked back to the

cracks of the cinder-path who were in their glory when he left

Lancashire, ten years before. A little information I gave him about old

friends, and then we talked of those who had taken their places, Hacking

bewailing the fact that there were none like the "good uns" of the past.

"How many men are there to-day," he asked, "who can do the hundred in

even time?"

"There are very few good sound even-timers in all England," I answered,

"and only two among the amateurs,--one a Cockney, the other a

Yorkshireman. The only Lancashireman who can do the hundred in ten

seconds is sitting with you to-night, and little likely to see the Old

Country again for many a long year, if ever."

At this, Hacking gave me a very comprehensive look, puffed a few times

vigorously at his pipe, and said, "Young fellow, boasting is a very bad

habit, particularly on sporting matters. I will bet you your board bill

for a month against the pipe you smoke, that you cannot show me better

than eleven seconds to-morrow morning."

"Eleven seconds!" said I, "a school-boy should do that."

"Yes, eleven seconds," spoke up Hacking again. "You are not in condition

and the track is slow, which will even matters up, and I'll give you the

advantage of the odd fraction."

I accepted his proposition very promptly, though the pipe was the only

friend I had, and a relic of old college days which I should have hated

to lose. While I was certainly not in training, poverty and worry had

left me no superfluous flesh, and it must be a bad track indeed which

could pull me back to eleven.

We talked and smoked until a little after ten, when I pleaded fatigue

and went upstairs to bed, Hacking agreeing to call me at six o'clock the

following morning, as he said he had reasons for wishing the trial

private. He showed me to a very comfortable room on the second floor,

which seemed luxurious after my experiences of the last two weeks.

Although I had left home without the formalities of farewell calls, and

under the cover of the night, I had put in my luggage, small as it was,

a pair of running shoes, trunks, and jersey. Why I did this I could not

have told; certainly not in expectation of using them again, for I

thought there was no sport in America, and that I had run my last race.

I think now it must have been the unconscious wish to keep one link with

the good old days when I had carried the "dark blue" to the front, or

thereabout, over brown cinder path and soft green sod.

I did not sleep very well for all my comfortable quarters, and when

Hacking knocked at my door on the following morning I had been up an

hour or more, and was clad in full running togs, having ripped from

trunks and jersey all trace of the well-loved color.

When he looked me over his eyes glistened, for he had not seen an

English athlete in a proper rig for many a long day.

We went down the back stairs and through the barn yard to a little track

behind the house. It was a foggy morning and one could barely see the

length of the hundred yards. I jogged once or twice over the course to

warm up, and discover some of the bad spots, and then announced that I

was ready for the trial.

Just then the sun came out, and as I waited at the start while Hacking

went to the finish, he walked through a golden haze. It seemed a good

omen. I felt more at home in my running-shoes than I had since I left

the Old Country, and was once again happy, with my foot on the mark,

drinking in full draughts of fresh air and waiting for the signal to be

off.

This was the drop of a handkerchief, for Hacking did not care to use a

pistol. There was the quick spring, the crunch of the cinders, the rush

of the soft wind, the ever-quickening stride, until with one last effort

I passed the post with a rush.

It was a rough trial, sure enough, but Hacking's watch showed ten and

four-fifths. He announced himself satisfied, confirmed his promise, and

my worry about food and shelter was over for a full long month.

I now spent a number of days trying still to find something to do which

I could fairly handle, going into the city each day, but entirely

without result.

I was at no expense, however, for I walked to and from town, and took a

cold lunch with me. This last was attended to by Hacking's niece, a

tall, fair-haired girl, a trifle awkward yet, for she was only sixteen,

but pretty, and promising to be a real beauty later.

She was very kind and gracious, as a good girl is sure to be toward one

in trouble. Indeed, Jennie's sympathy soon became liking, and might

perhaps have grown to something more had it received any encouragement.

I do not mean by this that I was irresistible or that she was at all

unmaidenly, for a more modest girl I never saw. But she was very lonely,

her uncle allowing her not the least word with any of his customers. I

was the first young fellow she had ever known, and sixteen is a romantic

age.

Never was I beast enough to have gone further than a mild flirtation

with a girl like Jennie, and now I was bound in honor not to abuse the

confidence of a friend, the only one I had. There were some old

Lancashire memories, also, which would not down.

I had not been long at the "Traveller's Rest" before, at Hacking's

request, I went into mild training, and soon after he broached to me a

plan by which I might make enough to keep me for some months, and

incidentally a comfortable penny for his own purse.

This was the plan:

There was in Boston a man by the name of Simmons, who was yards better

than any one in the country. Hacking plainly told me that while I ought

to win, even I had no sure thing, but that he would risk a hundred

dollars or more on my success; that he could get odds of at least two to

one, and that he would give me one-third of the winnings.

It may be a matter of surprise that I should decline this offer,--almost

an object of charity, with everything to win and nothing to lose; but

there was something very disagreeable to me in the thought of turning

professional. The line between amateur and professional was then, and is

now, much more closely drawn on the other side than here,--and rightly

so, to my mind.

While I do not propose to preach a sermon on this text, "I could, an' if

I would." The jockeying in our American colleges, though very skilfully

done, is bad in every way and hurts legitimate sport not a little.

I felt, I say, that in running for a wager with a professional I was

forfeiting my standing as a gentleman amateur, and my claim to be

considered a gentleman at all.

Jennie thought the same thing, and came mighty near a quarrel with her

uncle over the matter. But he, led more by the ambition to pull off a

good thing than by mercenary motives, would not give up his plan, though

Jennie begged with tears in her eyes,--an argument which had never

before been ineffectual.

It was only when I had lived on his bounty a full week over the month

that he hinted, delicately enough (for a right good fellow was he), that

my time was up. There was nothing else to do but consent, and a week

later the "Boston Herald" announced that there was "a match on between

Chipper Simmons and Hacking's Unknown, $200 to $100, distance one

hundred yards, to be run May 1, at Hacking's Brighton track, at four

o'clock in the afternoon."

I had three weeks of careful training on the wretched little track, and

when the morning of May 1 dawned I was fit as possible, and able to run

for my life. It was not an English May day, but more like what I was

used to seeing in the Old Country a month earlier. The sky was blue, and

across it drifted soft white clouds, for there had been showers in the

night. There was the smell of the moist earth, and what little wind

there was blew from the south, and carried the fragrance of the

pear-blossoms from a young orchard to my window as I threw it open.

I took my tub and Hacking gave me a right good rub down after; not a

very artistic performance, but given with good will and with a strong

hand. When it was done he looked me over with a critical eye,

pronouncing me very fit, "barring a heavy pound or two;" but as I had

done my work faithfully he could find no fault. He thought me a bit

over-confident, and told me so; but I had never for a moment doubted my

ability to defeat anything against me, and I paid little attention to

his words. I was not conceited, but I knew there were not a half-dozen

amateurs in all England in my class, and was sure an Old-Country crack

must outclass anything the States could produce.

As early as two o'clock the spectators began to arrive, and I, following

my own inclination as well as Hacking's suggestion to "get under cover,"

went upstairs and knocked at the door of Jennie's little sitting-room.

She greeted me most cordially with a handshake and a "good day to a good

winner." She was dressed in her best gown, and had been sitting at the

window to watch the arrivals. I took a seat by her side on the little

chintz-cushioned window-seat, and watched with her.

To those who to-day see the throngs of well-dressed and refined people,

many of them ladies, who attend college, amateur, and even professional

sports, it may not be amiss to describe the spectators of my first match

at Hacking's Brighton track, back in the sixties, for a typical sporting

crowd it was.

They drove to the door in all sorts and descriptions of vehicles, drawn

by animals as various. They soon filled the long sheds back of the

house, and then a dilapidated fence was utilized for hitching-posts, and

even a few trees of the young orchard.

The drivers were many of them Englishmen, for the average American was

too keen after the dollars in those days to leave them for sport of any

kind. The adjournment to the bar was almost unanimous, where enough

money was taken for fancy drinks to make good Hacking's stake had he

lost.

We could see them come swaggering up the steps, many of them carrying

whip in hand, and there was much loud talk of passing Tom, Dick, or

Harry on the road, with the "little bay" or the "brown colt."

We could hear them plainly, for the window was up a bit, and they did

not talk in whispers.

Every now and again some one would chaff Hacking on his Unknown, telling

him to "trot out the wonder," or "give us a sight of the man who runs

Simmons even."

It was three o'clock when a long moving wagon labelled "Boston Belle"

drove up to the door, containing Simmons, his backers and immediate

attendants; and the crowd at the bar sauntered out on the piazza to meet

them, and hurried back in augmented numbers to patronize still further

the tall bottles behind the mahogany.

I had a glimpse of Simmons as he stepped out; but he was enveloped in a

long ulster, and all I could discover was that he was extremely tall and

dark.

His supporters had plenty of money, and soon ran the odds up to three to

one, at which figures Hacking accommodated them to a considerable

extent. I had not another supporter, however, for they all seemed to

consider that Hacking had quite lost his head, and took the match as a

huge joke. It was very evident that, if I broke the tape, it would be a

most unpopular, as well as unexpected, win. Hacking stuck to them well,

but at last got all he wanted, and declined to risk any more. So

confident was Simmons' principal backer that he proposed another match,

though this was not yet pulled off, agreeing to concede three yards when

we ran again.

It is wonderful what effect such talk has on a contestant, no matter how

confident he may be. I had not for a moment doubted the ability of a

crack man like myself to beat anything in the States at my distance, but

I now began to admit the possibility of defeat, and to consider that it

meant almost starvation to me. You must remember I was barely twenty

years old, in a strange country, and a man trained close to the limit is

particularly liable to fancies.

Jennie had been talking to me all the time in her quiet way, for she had

the good old English habit of subdued speech; but little did I hear

then, and now I remember almost nothing at all.

I first noticed that she had become vastly indignant at a reflection on

the courage of the "Unknown who dares not show himself."

"Don't fret: you'll see him soon enough, my man," she said, with a toss

of her head. She was giving me some absurd instructions about letting

Simmons get the best of the start, and then sailing by him in the last

few yards, so that the disappointment might be more intense, when some

one in the crowd yelled out with a Yorkshire accent, "Fifteen dollars

to five on the long-legged Chipper. Fifteen to five against the 'veiled

lady.'"

There was a loud laugh at this, which was too much for Jennie. She

jumped up, went to her little desk in the corner, and took from one of

those secret drawers, which are so evident, her purse, and emptying it

in her lap counted out five dollars and a few cents over. She then

called the chamber-maid, gave her the five dollars, and told her to give

it to Jerry, the hostler, to bet on Mr. Brown.

"'Tis an easy way to make money," she said, with an immense amount of

disdain at my remonstrance.

I sat with her a while longer, she doing all the talking, for my mind

was occupied, to put it mildly. When the little clock on the shelf

pointed to three-thirty, I left to get into my running-togs, she giving

me a good grip with her soft warm hand, and saying, "I shall see you win

from the attic window."

When I reached my room, which Hacking told me to keep locked, I had a

difficulty in finding the key-hole that I had never experienced, except

"after dinner" or at late hours of the evening, my fingers being quite

unsteady. As I stripped, my courage seemed to leave me with every

garment. I remember I wondered if it would come back again when I put

on my running-clothes. A little better I did feel, but at the last

moment I broke the lace of my left shoe as I was pulling it tight.

Now, there is an old superstition that this means a lost race, and

though I had never thought of such a foolish thing before, it seemed now

a sure omen of defeat.

Indeed, I may as well confess first as last, that when Hacking knocked

at my door, for the first time in all my life (and the last as well) I

was in a blue funk.

Yes, a rank quitter was I on that afternoon of May 1, 186-, and I am not

sure I should not have cut and run, had there been the least chance to

get away.

Hacking discovered my condition at once, and grew mighty serious when

his efforts to hearten me were unsuccessful. And truly the man had good

reason to be serious,--a good three hundred dollars at risk, and here

was his man with knees kissing and lips white.

There was nothing to do but to go on with the game, though, to make it

worse, as I walked down the back stairs, I caught my spikes in a crack

and nearly put myself out of the race by a bad fall before the start. It

is almost an absurd thing to say, but when I picked myself up and

discovered I was entirely uninjured, I cursed the ill-luck which had not

allowed me to be disabled.

I did have pride enough to make a brace when I reached the open air, and

flattered myself I did not show how badly I felt.

I was enveloped in a long top-coat, which hid me completely, but as we

forced our way to the track through the spectators, who crowded around

to get a look at me, my teeth were set to keep them from chattering.

There were several offers of three to one, and one of four to one, as we

passed; but Hacking said he had enough, and I think he told the truth

and could have said "more." He hurried on with me to the start, where

Simmons stood with a little cluster of his most ardent admirers.

As we approached, Simmons threw off his ulster, and came forward to meet

me. His eye caught mine, and he smiled in a very peculiar way,

discovering immediately my condition, and held out a long brown hand,

without a word.

I extended mine mechanically, expecting an ordinary handshake, but

greatly to my surprise he gripped it in a most vicious squeeze which

brought almost a cry of agony to my lips. I learned afterwards that this

was a common trick to intimidate and dishearten, but was entirely

unprepared for anything of the kind, having always run against

gentlemen, where all proper courtesies were observed.

The effect upon me was, however, directly opposite that expected. My

trouble was not so much lack of courage as simple nervousness. With the

shock of the pain this disappeared as if by magic, and in its place came

at first a blind rage at the injury, which I could scarcely restrain,

and then the determination to win, if I never ran again.

I was a different man. I threw off my top-coat, and facing my opponent,

looked him over critically and carefully. I am free to say I could not

deny him a long breath of admiration. He was over six feet tall, dark

and slender, showing signs of the infusion of Indian blood which was in

his veins. He was clad in a common undershirt, far from clean. Instead

of trunks he wore overalls cut off just above the knees, and on his feet

were a pair of well-seasoned moccasins.

Yet despite his unsportsmanlike and ludicrous costume, a better-built

man for a sprinter I never saw, and I have seen some of the best.

His legs were long and lithe, well-rounded, but not too heavily muscled,

and every cord and sinew showed through the brown skin as fine and firm

as a bowstring. He carried not an ounce of extra weight above the belt,

although his chest was full and his arms sinewy. With the strong jaw and

piercing black eyes, there could be no question of their possessor's

determination. I knew my work was cut out for me with a big pair of

shears; that I had met a man as good if not better than myself, and I

must do all I knew to win. That I was to win I had now determined,--a

grand, good condition of mind for a contestant to possess.

Simmons observed me as critically as I did him, and I think that the

more he saw of me the less he liked me. The contrast between us was as

great as possible. I was as fair as he was dark, several inches shorter,

and although without any superfluous flesh, much larger boned and

muscled. Indeed I was built more like a "quarter-miler" than a sprinter.

I must have bettered his weight by several pounds, and had not the

top-coat covered me, and my nervousness shown itself, I question if he

would have tried his little bit of brutality upon me.

While the survey of my opponent was most comprehensive, it was the work

of seconds. He suddenly produced a roll of dirty bank-bills, and shook

them in my face with a "See here, young fellow, I go you one hundred to

fifty you're a loser." I opened my mouth to decline the bet, but my

words were drowned by a torrent of mingled abuse, invective, and I know

not what of "billingsgate." It ended in an endless repetition of the

very conclusive sentence, "Put up, or shut up," "Put up, or shut up,"

which evidently gave him an extreme amount of satisfaction. I was not

then the possessor of fifty cents, and was pleased when the starter

silenced him with the peremptory order to "Get on your marks."

I went to the line at once, followed by Simmons, and as the crowd was

being pressed back slowly behind the ropes, Hacking drew me a little

aside and gave me his last instructions. "Now, my lad, listen to what I

say. You've got your heart back all right, and can win if you use your

head. The starter will hurry the pistol a bit, for he would like to see

you win, and you need not be afraid of going away too soon. Get a yard

to the good, and hold it, for if you cannot show clear at the tape, you

will stand no show with the referee."

I learned afterwards that while both were supposed to be fair and

unprejudiced men, Hacking had practically named the starter, and

Simmons' backer the referee. The former would give me all possible

advantage, and the latter would see none but my opponent at the finish

without opera-glasses unless I had him plainly beaten.

To those who do not know, I will say that, in a sprint, very much

depends on the start; that a contestant must be off with the pistol, or

steal on it if he can. But if he gets away before the shot, he is

brought back and penalized a yard for each offence. Knowing that the

pistol would be a bit quick was a decided advantage to me, as I could

start without fear of being set back.

As I got in position, I had made up my mind to the following facts:

First, that I had the best side of the track. It was the west or

farthest from the house, and well I knew every inch of the brown

cinder-path that stretched before me. For the first fifty yards there

was nothing to choose; but on the east side, which Simmons had taken,

just before the finish was a soft spot which would trouble him. Second,

the rain of the previous night had made the track quite heavy, which

should also help me, as my greater strength must push me through. Third,

my appearance had not been without its effect on the crowd, and I had

heard a word or two of approval of my "get-up," also of the quiet and

business-like way in which I had met Simmons' tirade.

We were on our marks and waiting for the word when suddenly my opponent

discovered my running-shoes, and insisted that I must run in smooth

soles like himself.

He kept up a wordy warfare with Hacking on this subject for at least

five minutes, Hacking arguing that there were no restrictions, and that

I could wear top-boots or golden slippers if I chose.

Simmons was silenced at last by the crowd, who plainly saw I would not

run without spikes, and were bound to see a race.

All this controversy, together with the continued brutality of my

opponent, had put me fairly on edge. I was as cool as possible, ready to

do all I knew, eager to start, and growing more determined if not more

confident every minute.

I had given an occasional glance at the attic window of the hotel where

I could see Jennie, and every time I looked came the wave of a little

handkerchief that did me a heap of good.

As I "set myself," and looked down the track, fringed on either side by

the crowds of spectators pressed close against the ropes, not one of

whom was friendly to me, every nerve of my body tingled, and the

"fighting blood" passed down to me through many generations of good old

English stock was at a fever heat.

Now I saw nothing and thought of nothing but the red worsted at the

finish; I strained at the mark with every muscle tense, my weight well

forward, and a buzz in my ears like the song of a huge top.

From the starter's lips came the "On your marks,"--"Ready,"--"Set," and

then a bit ahead of time came the "crack" of the pistol, and we were

off.

Can any one describe the mad ten seconds of a sprint? 'Tis over in a

breath, and words are slow.

I doubt I had a foot the best of the start, but Simmons was a trifle

"phased" by the quick shot, and did not get his speed so quickly. But

when he did get it, how he came!

At fifty yards we were even, and at seventy-five (do all I could)

Simmons had drawn a yard to the good.

A yell went up from the crowd. It made him think he had me beat. But had

he? His easy wins had taught a fatal fault of slowing at the finish. The

soft ground helped it, and the yell that gave him a false confidence

drove me mad with glory. I let out the last link in me, and passing like

a shot, broke the tape, a clear winner by a yard.

There was no mistake: Hacking's "Unknown" had won.

I ran much farther over the finish than did Simmons, and when I worked

my way to the referee through the crowd, the decision was announced,

and my opponent was like a fiend. He threatened the referee, and swore

he would break the neck of the d---- "ringer" with the spiked shoes.

Although I was not looking for trouble, I should not have hesitated to

show him I knew another game beside running if he had laid a hand on me.

Thanks to his friends' persuasion, with some physical force added, he

was pulled away and through the crowd.

This last had now become quite friendly to me, having gone from

curiosity to admiration for the man who could beat the "Chipper" even.

Some shook my hand, others patted me on the back, and many suggested an

adjournment to the bar with unlimited liquid refreshment as the "proper

medicine for a good winner."

They took my declining in good part, and soon Hacking forced his way to

me, and tearing me from my admirers, gave me a chance to retire to my

room.

I found Jennie at the top of the stairs, with tears of joy in her eyes,

and a bit hysterical from excitement. Greatly to my surprise (and her

own as well, when she realized what she had done), she threw both arms

round my neck, and kissed me twice before she came to herself. Then

there was a bright blush, a quick turn, the rustle of skirts, and the

slam of the door.

I was glad enough to reach the solitude of my room, where from the

window I saw Simmons bundled into the "Boston Belle" by a half-dozen

dejected supporters, and with none to do him honor among the many.

"_Le roi est mort, vive le roi_," is as true on the cinder-path as in

the great world outside.

But as I sat in my room, a winner, with the cheers still echoing in my

ears, and good money awaiting me, it was a sad heart that beat under my

jersey.

For the "red pottage of Esau" I had sold my birthright.

[Illustration: The Hollow Hammer]

It was on a June day back in the late "sixties" that I first saw Angus

MacLeod, the hero of my story of "The Hollow Hammer."

I had given a boxing-lesson to a little jeweller in South Boston who was

burdened with a pugilistic ambition, and was walking leisurely homeward,

enjoying the fine weather and the exercise in the open air. As I

sauntered along at an easy pace, with my eyes wandering here and there,

something in the day or the neighborhood reminded me of the "Old

Country," and particularly the ancient town of Bury. I think it must

have been the sight of the iron-foundry down the street, with the flames

streaming from its chimneys.

I know I was harking back to almost forgotten scenes, and old

acquaintances who had doubtless long ago forgotten me (excepting one,

perhaps), when a chorus of rough voices brought me to myself with a

start. The noise came from behind the high fence which shut in the

iron-works yard, and I could not make out what it meant until I reached

the open gate and looked in.

It was the noon hour, and there were a lot of men lounging about, eating

from their tin pails, smoking short black pipes, and doing whatever else

they fancied. The yard was as level and smooth as a tennis-court, but

without the least sign of turf except along the fence and fringing the

foundation-stones of the foundry building.

The noise came from a crowd of workmen, clustered together not far from

the huge door. A row of them sat on the ground with their backs against

the wall, and there were a dozen or more standing together in a bunch.

These were mostly the younger men, who, not content with five hours'

work since sunrise, were having a friendly test of strength in putting

the shot.

They were using for the purpose an old cannon-ball, which must have

weighed a bit over the sixteen pounds by the size of it.

Cannon-balls were plenty in those days, for the war was not many years

over.

Now, there is always something interesting to me in the sport of a lot

of workingmen. They take a bit of a lark with all the more heartiness

because they do not have too many of them. Then, again, this

shot-putting contest was for the pure love of the game, and without the

selfish incentives of money, prize, or glory.

There was a running fire of good-natured chaff all the time, and at each

"put," good, bad, or indifferent, the contestant was guyed unmercifully

for his style or distance. Failing this, some old personality was raked

up, the allusion to which brought out no end of laughter and applause.

It was an interesting scene, with plenty of variety and color. The men

were mostly big, brawny fellows, with sleeveless flannel shirts of red,

blue, or gray, open at the breast; and grime or rust could not hide the

splendid development of arms, chests, and shoulders.

The sun was warm and bright, and here and there a tin pail would catch

the light, and shine as clear, I warrant, as ever the shield of a good

knight, back in the old days when there were sterner sports than tossing

an iron shot. Many a good man could I see, but at the game they were

trying they had much to learn. 'Twas a case of "bull beef," and little

more.

I watched them a few minutes, but was about to move on when there

appeared at the door of the foundry a young fellow who caught my eye at

once.

He was stripped to the waist, fresh from a struggle with the stubborn

iron, and his body was drenched and shining with sweat. His arms and

shoulders were round and firm; but there was no abnormal development, or

sign of a bound muscle, and he stood with an ease that proved good legs

under him, though hidden by the thick corduroys. His hair was light and

curly, and his face was smooth and clean cut.

Many bigger and some stronger men have I seen, but none whose

proportions were so perfect.

Among the few remembrances of my books is that dialogue of Plato which

describes the sensations of Socrates at first seeing the beautiful

youth, Charmides. Well (may Socrates forgive me the comparison), I had

the same feeling when I first looked at Angus MacLeod on that June day,

back in the "sixties." Barring the difference in costume, and the grime

which a little water would remove, I believe they were alike as two

peas.

The lad (he looked scarcely twenty years of age for all his development)

stood a moment or two in the doorway, watching with an amused smile a

big fellow put the shot a scant twenty feet, after an enormous amount of

effort. Then he was noticed by some one who called out, "Come here,

Mac, you porridge-eater, and show them how to do it."

At this he laughed, shook his head, and would not budge. But the call

was taken up by others, with a lot of chaff, like, "The lad's bashful,"

"A Scotch puddler's always shy except on pay-day," and a plenty more

like it.

At last a young fellow in a blue jersey, and an old chap, the color and

material of whose shirt were alike doubtful, took each an arm, and led

him, holding back a bit and laughing, to the circle within which the

shot lay.

He picked it up, dropped it while he drew his narrow belt a hole or two

tighter, and then picked it up again. He rolled it a bit in his hand,

raised it two or three times from his shoulder high above his head,

balanced a moment on his right leg, with the left lifted, and then, with

that easy wrist and hand motion, and that little "flick" at the end, he

sent the old cannon-ball a good two yards farther than any who had

tried.

It was a right good "put," though not a phenomenal one, and hardly a

fault could I find with the style, barring a little failure to get the

full turn of the body.

Almost as soon as the shot landed, and before the mingled applause and

good-natured chaffing were over, he left them with a parting joke, and

disappeared through the door, going back to his waiting furnace. This

was my first sight of Angus MacLeod.

I looked him up a few days later, got acquainted easily, and in fact hit

it off right well with him from the beginning. I was just enough older

for him to look up to me a bit in other matters beside athletics, and on

this last subject he gave me credit for possessing all the knowledge in

the market. I learned that he had been in this country some four years,

that he lived with an uncle, one of the pillars of a Scotch Presbyterian

church, and that Angus was himself a churchman, devout and regular in

his habits.

He had taken to athletics, with no other preparation than the school-boy

sports of old Aberdeen, making a specialty of the "shot-put" and

"hammer-throw."

This last was his favorite sport, and by dint of regular practice in an

open lot back of his house he was able to show about ninety feet as a

best performance. He improved this at once under my instruction, working

up to a regular hundred feet in a couple of weeks. This pleased him very

much, and he took kindly to my suggestion that he enter some open

competition, and see what he could do in a contest.

Indeed, he was quite confident that he could give a good showing, making

much of the fact that the MacLeods had been noted for their strength for

centuries. Many stories he told me of old John M'Dhoil-vic-Huishdon,

from whom he claimed to have descended. This John was the head of the

MacLeods of Lewis. He lived in the days of James VI., and, though a man

of small stature, was of matchless strength. Some of the tales, I

confess, I should have doubted, had not Angus been both a Scotchman and

a church member of good standing.

It was quite easy for us to choose an opportunity for Mac's debut, as

there were some very convenient sports only a few weeks ahead.

These games, Scotch and otherwise, were the principal attraction at an

annual excursion of Caledonian societies, comprising all those within a

radius of one hundred miles of Boston.

Purses were small, but the enthusiasm great; and many a canny Scot,

under the influence of a "wee drappie," would back an impossible winner

for all his pockets might hold.

These were the good old days of Duncan Ross and Captain Daily, and at

one of these Caledonian excursions there afterward occurred that

never-to-be-forgotten wrestling bout on the deck of a boat moored in the

lake. So fierce was the struggle that the men worked overboard, and

neither being willing to break hold, they were well filled with water,

and in fact half-drowned before they separated.

Angus belonged to one of the Boston clans, and naturally chose these

Caledonian games for his first appearance, working hard, training

faithfully, and saying nothing, for a very quiet chap was Mac. If all

the men I have trained had been as easy to handle as MacLeod, I should

have one or two less gray hairs than I now possess. Unfortunately,

church members are not in as large a percentage as I would wish on the

cinder-path.

Now, I had at first no intention of pulling a dollar out of the affair,

except my regular fee for training. Even this I at first declined,

wishing to help my friend purely out of friendship. Mac would not have

it, however, and as his pay was high, I allowed him to have his way.

I had now been making a business of training athletes for nearly a year,

getting a good living out of it, and had at the beginning a nice little

nest-egg in the bank, ready for a rainy day.

Exactly how this was accumulated I do not care to say. These tales are

in no sense confessions, and I shall avoid the "strutting I" as much as

possible.

After my defeat of "Chipper" Simmons, at Hacking's Brighton track, there

were a couple of years passed not at all to my liking, though profitably

enough for one of small ideas. I took on matches wherever they promised

a dollar. I ran everybody, and every distance, from a fifty-yard dash to

a mile run, and almost invariably won, largely because of the pains I

took with myself, and my careful training. I learned all the tricks of

the trade, gave close finishes always, did an artistic "fainting act,"

and made myself a subject of regretful, not to say painful, remembrance

to a large part of the sporting fraternity.

They stood it all right for a couple of years, but the summer before I

met MacLeod I suddenly discovered I had about squeezed the orange dry.

They had, very naturally, grown more and more shy of me, until it had

become impossible to obtain a match, except under prohibitive

conditions. I tried giving good men eight yards in the "hundred" and one

hundred yards in the mile for a while, but discovered it was a hard

business, with nothing in it. My only profit, as far as I could see, was

to run crooked, and fake a race or two, but at this, though not

over-nice, I drew the line.

I was willing to underrate my powers, and fool the fancy on my

condition; to win by a scant yard with pretended effort, in order to

pull on my opponent to another race; but to back him on the sly and lie

down, to pull money from my friends, I could not. A gentleman I might

not be, but honest I would be still. Indeed, despite the "winning way" I

had, my reputation was of the best as a rare, good runner, as a square

man who gave his backers a straight run for their money, and as the most

knowing man in the States concerning work and training for the

cinder-path.

On this last I made up my mind to trade. I announced my absolute

retirement as a contestant, and my intention to make a business of

training and handling others.

My prices startled them a bit at the beginning, but after I had made a

few winners out of almost impossible timber, I was kept fairly well

occupied. When the winter put a stop to my out-of-doors work, I became

instructor in a gymnasium, and gave lessons in boxing and fencing. I

even prepared one man for a ring contest, which he won, thanks to his

perfect condition, after acting as a chopping-block to a better boxer

for a couple of hours, this affair satisfying me at once and forever

with the prize ring.

At the coming of the spring I found my book very well filled, and would

by June have been quite content to have trained Mac with no recompense

whatever.

Yet I had no objections to make money from others, and discovered a very

fair opportunity, as I thought, about two weeks before the games. I then

received a bit of information that there was a dark horse grooming for

the hammer throw, in the person of an Irishman by the name of Duffy. He

was an enormous fellow, as strong as an ox, could do nearly one hundred

feet, and the tip made him a sure winner.

Now, I was very confident I knew better, though ninety feet, in those

days, was phenomenal for an amateur, and a throw of one hundred had not

been made in any previous contest. The best of the news was kept for the

last, and that was that Duffy had plenty of friends with good money to

back him.

I figured at once that MacLeod could just about call the trick, that

being a smaller man would help the odds, and that, properly managed,

there was a pretty penny in it.

Mac was now doing from one hundred to one hundred and five in the most

consistent manner, and I made up my mind to plunge on him a bit, keeping

quiet so that Duffy's friends might show their hands first. This was

easy enough, for Mac did all his work after supper in the vacant lot

back of his house, where no one could pull a tape over his throws. It

was prudent, also, for MacLeod had very rigid ideas about betting

(gambling he called it), and would undoubtedly have protested, if he had

not declined to show at all.

Duffy's friends began very cautiously with small figures, and I took all

that showed through a third party. When one hundred dollars was promptly

covered, however, they made up their minds there was something else

good, and became a bit shy.

I let them alone until the evening before the excursion, when I sallied

into the Duffy neighborhood, and at one to two offered to produce a man

weighing under one hundred and seventy pounds who would win against all.

Now, a hammer-thrower of this weight is rare, and I found all the money

I cared to cover. Indeed, I exceeded my limit a trifle. Then I wandered

over to Mac's field, pulled the tape over his throw of one hundred and

eight, and went home and to sleep, for not a grain of anxiety had I over

the result. I doubt if I should have given five per cent. to be insured

a winner.

The day dawned, fine and hot. We went down from Boston a good three

hundred strong, men, women, and children, the last turning out a whole

clan by themselves. There were bagpipes squealing, babies crying, and a

Babel of rough Scotch tongues. Tartans were displayed in all the colors

of the rainbow. Some were content to show only a tie, ribbon, or shawl,

but a fair percentage were in full Highland costume, and far from

comfortable many of them looked.

The dress is wonderfully picturesque, and nothing is more becoming to an

athletic man with straight legs and strong brown knees. But for a petty

tradesman with legs like pipe-stems, knock-kneed, and ghastly white it

is particularly trying, and many of the gallant Scots looked as if they

would like to don the protecting "breeks" to which they had become

accustomed.

We all piled into the hot and dusty cars, and after an hour and a half

were glad to get a breath of fresh air as we steamed down the bay.

Indeed, when we reached the "Point," a little before noon, I was loath

to go ashore, for the trees on a ridge of land cut off the wind, and the

place was like a furnace.

Nothing looked comfortable but a pair of bronze lions who flanked the

roadway to the hotel, and had they been alive I am sure they would have

found the day altogether too tropical.

I could see the crowds flocking around the swings, merry-go-rounds, and

the monkey cage, and there was a motley crowd in hired bathing-suits

enjoying a dip in the salt water. Of these last only was I in the least

envious.

The clans, immediately upon landing, formed in procession, and marched

off in the broiling sun, a half-dozen pipers playing "The Campbells are

coming" as loudly as possible, skirling like so many pigs under a gate.

The most conspicuous figure was an old fellow who blew as if his life

depended on the effort, and until I feared he would burst his bagpipe if

he did not rupture a blood-vessel first.

He seemed to feel that the world was looking at him, and he was well

conscious of its admiration. He was big-boned, loose-jointed, and so

sandy that it was a riddle to guess his age. His shoulders were badly

rounded, but he straightened up every few seconds in an abortive effort

to appear erect on this occasion, if never again. He was clad in full

Highland costume, even to dirk and claymore,--a rather unusual

accompaniment, and dangerous as well, for a Scot on a merry-making

where Scotch whiskey and Scotch ale mingle freely. He wore the MacNab

tartan, and the kilt looked as if it had been slept in, all twisted and

wrinkled.

As the clans marched up the hill and between the lions, I could see the

bright red tartans of the Frasers, the black and green of the Gordons,

and the beautiful parti-colors of the Stewarts. There were many others,

all showing bright in the sun; and there was a lift to the heels of the

marchers which nothing could have caused but the shrill notes of the

bagpipes. Indeed, they were enough to start the sluggish blood in my

veins, though I suppose my ancestors had long years ago heard the same

sounds with resentment, as the Scots swarmed over the border. As a

parlor instrument I should admit it had its superiors, but for strong

men going to battle I doubt if it has its equal.

There were all kinds of men in the crowd, from the gray-haired veteran

to the little fellow, born on American soil, who had never seen the

tartan kilts except on a holiday. There were a number of contestants in

the line, with strong, athletic figures, but not one could compare with

Angus, in the yellow and black of the MacLeods, as he marched, almost

the last. I saw the girls had their eyes on him, though Mac neither

noticed nor cared, for he thought them "kittle cattle," and was much

fonder of handling hammer and shot.

I had seen little of Angus since the start, for he was a clan officer

and had many duties, but found him, to my surprise, not in the least

nervous, and quite confident of winning. Did not old John

M'Dhoil-vic-Huishdon outclass all competitors in the old days, and was

not Angus MacLeod a lineal descendant, to whom had come the family

strength?

He said he had heard that there had been considerable money bet on him

to win, which he deplored, and that he would not have gone into the

thing at all had he foreseen it. I told him he was very foolish, for a

man might bet how long a Sunday sermon would last, and that if he did

not risk anything himself, not to trouble himself about others. Though

unable to argue, he shook his head, and was, I saw, uneasy, but I had no

fear of his drawing out at this late day.

When the crowd disappeared, I went to the hotel, and engaged a quiet

room, on the cool side of the house, where Angus joined me as soon as

the procession broke ranks.

I made him lie down a little while, gave him a sponge and rub-down, and

after a good lunch, such as a man should eat who expects soon to call

upon the best powers of his body, he pronounced himself feeling strong

enough to throw the hammer into the bay. We could see the crowd,

contestants and all, file into the long dining-rooms, where "clam-bakes"

were served. A very nice lunch for an excursionist, but about the most

awful diet possible for an athlete, particularly if he gorge himself in

a laudable ambition to get the full value of his fifty cents.

We waited until it was after two o'clock, and found the games already

started when we arrived at the place called in compliment the "athletic

grounds." It was simply an enclosure roped off from an open field; track

there was none, except as the feet of contestants had worn off the turf

and the sun had baked the surface hard. There were no seats, and we

found our way with some difficulty through the spectators, who crowded a

dozen deep all the way round, and tested the strength of the rope and

the firmness of the wooden posts through which it was drawn. An eager,

hot, and perspiring crowd it was, jostling, pushing, and elbowing, and

the last half-dozen rows might as well have been in the Orkneys, as far

as seeing the sports was concerned. As usual the tall and strong were in

front, and the short and weak were behind.

We found the enclosure full of contestants and their friends, the latter

an insupportable nuisance, in everybody's way, not excepting their own.

We saw Duffy standing with a little knot of henchmen, and they gave Mac

a critical glance as he walked by my side. It had leaked out in some way

who my man was, and the interest in him was great. They knew I was not

in the habit of taking up anything unless it was good, and some of Mac's

friends from the foundry had got a day off, with their last pay

envelopes with them.

All the officials and two-thirds of the crowd were Caledonians, but the

contests were nearly all open, and there was a large number of other

nationalities represented, particularly the Irish.

Of system there was next to none, changes were frequent, and orders

given and countermanded in the same breath. The noise was deafening and

the heat insupportable. The dust was like a good Scotch snuff as far as

sneezing properties were concerned, and of about the same color.

We were just in time to see the "fat men's race," in which the

contestants ran themselves almost into apoplexies. I am sure some of

these mountains of flesh must have permanently injured themselves, and

endangered their lives by their exertions.

I do not pretend to remember all the contests that followed, but there

were opportunities for every one, man, woman, and child, old or young,

to distinguish himself. Beside the regular sprints, runs, jumps, and

weight contests, there were "sack," "wheelbarrow," "potato," and

"three-legged" races, all opportunities for great laughter and applause.

I ordered Mac back to the hotel when we learned that the "hammer-throw"

was the very last event, and only sent for him when the afternoon had

nearly dragged itself out.

The last casts were then being made at "tossing the caber," which, being

the most characteristic Caledonian game of all, had a most formidable

list. Indeed, Angus was much disappointed that he had not entered, in

which feeling I did not at all join, for I wanted him to save all his

strength.

I remember now a little bandy-legged fellow in a crazy-looking kilt who

struggled with the heavy log, which he could scarcely lift, let alone

toss. He turned to me after a superhuman effort, his face aglow with

pride and exertion, and remarked breathlessly, "Rinnin's weel eneugh for

laddies; thot's the sport of a mon."

The "hammer-throw" had been left for the last, as I was informed,

because none would leave until it was over, thus ensuring a full

attendance until the end. The reason the "hammer-throw" was so popular

was because there was more money on it than all the other events

combined, also because of the race feeling excited by the nationalities

of the two most-favored contestants.

Perhaps a third of the spectators were Irish, and being more aggressive

and outspoken, were almost as much in evidence as the Scotch themselves.

Indeed, the applause when an Irishman won (and they had more than their

proportion of firsts that day) was as loud as at the victory of a Scot.

In the "hammer-throw" there were a scant half-dozen entries, the reputed

prowess of Duffy and MacLeod disheartening the less ambitious. I was

surprised to see among them old Sandy MacNab, the piper, but learned

that he had been a famous man with the weights, and had pulled off the

event here only last year. Indeed, for all his age (and more than twenty

was he) he was a good man yet despite his cadaverous appearance. He had

for years pulled money out of these Caledonian games, although the

amount of his winnings had diminished with his increasing years.

To-day he had backed himself to win the "Old Men's Race," and won

easily, but unfortunately stood to lose all he had made, and more too,

in the "hammer-throw."

In making his book to get second or better, he thought he had been

remarkably conservative, but receiving startling information concerning

Duffy and Mac when it was too late, had found it impossible to hedge. He

went into the contest expecting to lose, but resolved to make a try for

his money all the same. His contortions were wonderful, and convulsed

the crowd every time he threw, although he was serious enough, and

succeeded in getting into the finals with nearly ninety feet.

I shall never forget how the old fellow threw down his bonnet in the

dust, spit on his hands, and braced himself for his first trial. There

was a little crowd around the measurer, who stood a good one hundred and

twenty feet away. These MacNab noticed just before he threw, and

insisted that they "gang awa oot o' dainger" before he would make his

try, although there was just as great chance of his hitting the

flag-staff of the hotel.

After he had finished his dialogue with the crowd, in which he held his

own, and more, he grasped the handle again with his long, bony fingers.

At first swinging very slowly, then faster and faster, until with a

double twist that made his kilt stand out like a ballet-dancer's skirt

about his long, knee-kissing legs, he gave a grunt and a gasp, and let

go. He watched the hammer through the air with bulging eyes, and when

it landed, ran after, and argued with the measurer over an extra

half-inch in a maddening fashion. Sandy was a privileged character,

however, and had a roar of applause every time he tried.

When MacLeod came up for his first throw, he caught the crowd

immediately, so handsome and modest was he. He found particular favor

with the "ladies," and not alone did I hear "Eh, but he's a braw

laddie," but one little Irish girl, close to the ropes, with blue eyes

and the proverbial smudge under them, set an example of cosmopolitan

freedom by clapping violently.

Yes, a right well-looking man was MacLeod that day, as he twisted his

fingers round the hammer-handle and prepared to throw. He had a fair,

open face, well colored by the sun; indeed, darker was it than the hair

that curled round his forehead. His arms and shoulders were splendidly

developed, and his legs brown, and corded like a distance runner's. So

well-proportioned was he that he did not look the twelve stone which he

really weighed, and there were murmurs of applause when he threw the

hammer ninety-eight feet in his first trial, Duffy having shown but

ninety-six just before him. Neither bettered in their second attempts,

but when Duffy sent the hammer over ninety-nine feet in his third,

putting into the effort all the enormous strength of which he was

master, a yell went up from his well-wishers which did his heart good,

and he came as near smiling as was possible for so surly a fellow. There

are no supporters on earth like an Irish crowd; they are hopeful to the

last, and many an event has an Irishman won, under the inspiration of

the cheers of his adherents.

Less loud, though not less hearty, was the applause when Mac sent the

hammer one hundred and one and a fraction, in the faultless style I had

taught him. Not the equal of Duffy in strength (for the Irishman was

almost a giant in height and girth), he knew how to use all he had to

the best advantage, and he was working himself slowly up to his best

effort to follow.

As I have already said, MacLeod, Duffy, and MacNab were left in the

finals. Duffy was grave and quiet when he made the first of his last

three throws, and grew graver yet when the measurer gave him less than

before, and while Sandy was doing his contortion act, twisting, jumping,

and breathing hard, like a man possessed, he had a conference with two

of his principal backers who stood by themselves apart.

I was feeling very comfortable, for Duffy, I was sure, had done all he

was capable of; and when Mac did one hundred and four I decided I was on

"Easy Street," and began to count my earnings. All the time I kept my

eyes about me, and was surprised to see the look of confidence with

which the Irishman came up for his next to last turn. He planted his

feet firmly, swung his huge arms round his head until he grew black in

the face, and then a last effort, and the hammer flew through the air.

I knew the moment it left his hand that it would best any throw made,

but I was astounded when the measurer announced over one hundred and

eleven. Where was my money? I could not believe it possible, for I had

sure information that Duffy had never quite covered one hundred feet,

and while Mac should do his one hundred and eight or a trifle better, I

did not believe he could make the one hundred and eleven to save his

life.

It was while Angus was making his next to last throw that a sudden

suspicion came to me. I was probably wrong, but my money was in danger,

and no chance would I throw away to save it. This time Mac was dead in

earnest, and getting his strength in just right threw only an inch short

of one hundred and ten. I waited until Duffy was about to make his last,

and then walked down just in time to be by the side of the measurer

when the hammer landed. I saw the tape, it was over one hundred and

twelve; and the yell that followed the announcement was enough to madden

one who stood to lose a half-year's earnings.

I picked the hammer up, and tested it carefully, balancing it in my

hand, and as I held it there came to me a grain of hope. Was it light,

or was I led astray by my wish? I had seen it weighed by the judge; the

head looked full size, and the handle all right. In those days the

handles were of wood weighing about a pound, and made the total

seventeen pounds or close to it. I had carried the hammer half-way back,

when Mac came to me and said, his eyes black with determination, "'Tis

my last chance, but I'll beat him yet." I gave him no answer, but walked

on until Duffy saw me. I was testing his hammer in my hand, doubtful

whether or not to ask for a reweighing, when I caught his eye, and

decided.

MacNab saw me too, discovering something queer about my face, and he and

Duffy were at my side together, the latter holding out his hand to take

the hammer, his face flushed and his voice husky, as he asked "What in

h----" I was trying to do. MacNab said something, just what it was I do

not know, but it showed his disposition to support me, for he was on

the anxious seat as well as myself.

To Duffy's demand I answered as calmly as possible, "I believe this

hammer under weight, and ask for a reweighing," holding it behind me

meanwhile. At this there was a "hurly-burly" at once, Duffy's friends

surrounding me, and had it not been for MacNab's support I should have

been in difficulties. The old man did not know what fear was; no one

dared lay a hand on him, because of his popularity with the crowd, and

he drowned all other voices with his shrill pipings.

He demanded a reweighing much more forcibly than I. "I winna gie it

'tell the weght iss weghted. I winna, na, I winna," he yelled again and

again, like a broken-winded bagpipe for all the world.

Mr. Fraser, the judge, and a very fair man, saw that he must do

something, and silenced the uproar, although old Sandy kept up a

muttering all the time. "You saw me weigh the hammer," said he, looking

at me. "I called it seventeen pounds one ounce, and you made no

protest."--"I do not cast any reflections on you," I answered, "but this

hammer which has just been thrown is certainly not a sixteen-pound

hammer. I can prove my statement, and ask that all throws with it be

disallowed." Then MacNab, who stood between me and Duffy, with one hand

on the handle, set up such an infernal din that Fraser immediately

consented, and I handed him the hammer. At this Duffy changed his tune,

and proposed to withdraw, saying he would not have any dirty Englishman

nor sneaking Scotchman doubt his word. He shook his huge fist in

Fraser's face and demanded the immediate return of his property. In this

he made a mistake, for the judge was as full of fire as a little Scotch

terrier, and he promptly walked to the scales and laid the hammer on

them.

Then there was a dead silence. MacLeod came to my side, for the lad had

not spoken a word since the row began; not that he lacked pluck, but he

had a mortal antipathy to a windy dispute, and knew I was fully

competent to protect his interests. The weight was on the

seventeen-pound mark, but the hammer did not lift it, and I saw by the

eager faces that the crowd was becoming suspicious. The little judge

pushed the weight to sixteen pounds, and still the beam hung; and only

at fifteen-eight did it rise. Everybody looked at Duffy's flushed face,

and Fraser demanded an explanation, though there did not seem to be much

that could be said.

The tall Irishman hemmed and hawed a bit, and then said huskily, "Faith,

I think it must have struck a stone and knocked off a piece." Despite

our seriousness, this ingenious explanation was too much for us, and the

whole crowd laughed until it could laugh no more, Duffy sneaking off in

the confusion.

Old man MacNab became almost delirious in his joy at saving his money in

this miraculous way, for Duffy's disqualification put the lank Scott

second; and after he had loaded me with acknowledgments, he left, with

the laudable ambition of getting outside all the whiskey on the

premises. The last I saw of him, his long legs were swinging gayly to

the notes of the Highland fling, with a fair prospect of winning the

prize.

As the crowd flocked back to the hotel, Fraser thanked me for my

firmness which had led to the discovery of the fraud, and I declined to

accept any, as I had only watched my money. I did agree to take the

light hammer, and he gave it to me together with another which had been

picked up from underneath the feet of the crowd.

On the way home MacLeod and myself compared them carefully, and were

greatly puzzled. They were almost identical; the size and form of the

heads, the turn of the handles, and the initials "P. D." burned into the

ends were alike in both. We could not understand where the difference in

the weights came in, until we arrived at my rooms. Here I knocked out

the handle of the light hammer, and found the centre of the head

hollowed out in a most artistic manner, and the mystery was solved. I

have no doubt but that Duffy did not use this until he was forced to do

so, and that he threw the full-weight hammer which Fraser tested for the

first four trials. Only when he was sure that MacLeod, "the little

Scottie," was a better man, and his (Duffy's) money was as good as gone,

did he fall back on the artistic reproduction, which could have been

easily handed to him by a friend in the crowd.

I confess I made a very pretty penny out of this transaction, and it was

all the more welcome because of the fright I had been in over it. Poor

Mac was not so fortunate, for although he positively declined to take a

penny from me, he was given credit at the church for having gambled

disgracefully, and was near being expelled for it.

If this should seem at all an improbable tale, I will assure you that

much the same incident occurred among our gentlemanly friends, the

college athletes, at a comparatively recent date, although it was kept

quiet in deference to somebody's feelings, and not exploited as was the

"hollow hammer" back in the late "sixties."

[Illustration: His Name Is Mud]

There is always a "post mortem" atmosphere about Fall track athletics.

Baseball shows a bit more life, for now the ambitious Freshman receives

his "trying out" and struggles valiantly to catch the critical eye of

the Captain, in search of new material for the "Nine."

The only "real thing" is football, which reigns supreme until

Thanksgiving Day dethrones him.

This period is the most trying one of all the year to a trainer. One

after another of his men on whom he depends for points on field and

track are drafted for the "gridiron," until there is scarcely one left

except the second-raters, whom he would gladly spare. Try to imagine my

feelings as I watch a football game from the side lines, when Hopkins,

my only ten one-fifth man is picked out of the bottom of a "scrimmage"

with one of his precious legs twisted, or Baily retires with a

dislocated shoulder,--Baily, who alone can be depended upon for any

distance with the "shot." Shaw pulls his sweater over his head and

takes Hopkins' place at "half back," Marlowe drops his blanket and fills

the gap at "tackle" caused by Baily's retirement, and the game goes on

just as before. No one seems to care much, but I think of the coming

Spring and wonder what kind of a showing we are destined to make.

I had seen a short practice game between the second and third elevens,

and had watched a few men listlessly circling the track, until the

gathering dusk warned me that it was time for dinner. I stopped a moment

at "Conner's" to arrange for some shoes for the team, and was half-way

across the square when I saw ahead of me, and in the middle of the

street, quite a little crowd, from the centre of which came a confused

jumble of barks, growls, yelps, and howls, the sure sign of a canine

disagreement. Now, of course, I did not countenance any such low sport

as a battle between two street curs, but I elbowed my way through, as I

am afraid most men would have done, and I am not quite sure that my

motive was wholly the separation of the combatants.

I found them to be a very large and very good-natured St. Bernard, not

quite full grown, and a very small and intensely angry terrier, weighing

about as much as his opponent's left leg. Indeed it was not, strictly

speaking, a fight at all, if it takes more than one to make a fight,

which is I believe an accepted axiom. The terrier, a mixture of hair,

mud, and impotent rage, would scramble over the wet pavement and make a

desperate spring at the big St. Bernard's throat, either to be avoided

by a lift of the head or a turn of the body, and the little fellow would

roll over and over, then gather himself up and attack his good-natured

foe again with renewed virulence.

It was really very funny, for neither of them was getting hurt, and when

at last the big fellow, in sheer desperation, placed his paw on his

assailant and held him down struggling vainly, it caused a hearty laugh

from all the crowd. The St. Bernard looked doubtfully at us, very much

as if to say, "Is not this a very awkward position for a gentleman to

find himself in?" and at last, seeing a gap in the crowd, he suddenly

lifted his paw and tried to make good his escape. In this he nearly

succeeded, but was not quite quick enough, for his crazy little

assailant caught him by the first joint of his hind leg, and buried his

sharp little teeth deep in the cartilages. This was really too much for

the big fellow's temper, already sadly tried, and turning with a howl of

pain, he seized his vicious little enemy in his big jaws, shook him a

second or two fiercely, and then dropped him on the pavement. It was all

over before we could interfere, and the big fellow's anger passed as

quickly as it came.

He saw at once that something was wrong, for the ragged little body lay

on its side entirely motionless, with the exception of a spasmodic

twitching of the legs. He sniffed at him carefully, then gave us a look

of reproach, at which I confess I felt ashamed, and trotted sadly away.

It was just at this moment that a number of the football men appeared,

led by big Shack Sawyer, who quickly elbowed his way to the inner circle

by my side, demanding "What's the row, Professor?"

"Only a little dog fight," I answered, a bit shocked at the sudden

transformation from comedy to tragedy.

"It looks more like a dog funeral than a dog fight," spoke up Seever,

who was as usual at Shack's elbow.

"I wonder what his name is?" inquired an hysterical woman with a

falsetto voice, who had appeared from I know not where, to ask this

particularly interesting question.

"The dog's name!" exclaimed Shack; "his name is 'Mud,' I guess, and no

mistake." At which there was a half-hearted laugh, for the silent

little chap on the pavement was a pathetic sight indeed. Somebody said,

"Throw some water on him," and a bareheaded boy with a dinner-pail in

his hand filled it at a horse-trough close by, and Shack took it and

threw half its contents on the terrier.

No sooner had the water struck him than he gave a sneeze, like the

hunchback in the "Arabian Nights" who had the unfortunate experience

with the fish-bone, struggled to his feet, and after a somewhat unsteady

circuit of the crowd in a vain effort to find his late antagonist,

decided he had put him to flight, and began to bark triumphantly.

Indeed, the "dying gladiator" showed every sign of being as good as new,

with the exception of a little patch of red at his throat and a very

muddy and bedraggled coat.

He went from one to another, wagging his stump of a tail frantically;

and when the crowd broke up he dropped in at Sawyer's heels as if he had

always belonged there. Shack allowed him to follow him home, and after a

somewhat perfunctory effort to find an owner, he became Shack's dog from

this time on, and a very lucky dog he was.

When "Mud," for Shack's random christening proved permanent, was treated

to the twin luxuries of a bath and a comb, he showed quite an

attractive personality. That his coat of arms bore the "bar sinister,"

there was not the least doubt. His master declared there was no "blot on

his scutcheon," and that he was a pure-blooded, wire-haired fox terrier;

but his legs were too short, and his hair both too long and too silky

for any such claim. Seever made out an imaginary pedigree for him, in

which many canine aristocrats of different breeds appeared; but Marlowe

declared he certainly must have numbered somewhere among his ancestors a

very plebeian New England woodchuck.

Shack took a deal of chaffing over his "high-bred dog," but clung to him

nevertheless, and Mud sprang into instantaneous popularity with the

whole college. He had indeed a number of very valuable qualities, the

most important of which was an undaunted courage. He was afraid of

nothing that walked on four legs, or two either, for that matter. A dog

of his own size or smaller he treated with an easy condescension. He

looked upon anything larger as an enemy, and a very big dog he

considered a personal insult, no matter how he behaved. I am inclined to

think that the root of his anger was simply jealousy of superior inches.

Whatever the motive was, however, Shack was kept busy pulling him out of

the jaws of bigger dogs whenever he took him for an airing.

Mud could certainly not claim to be "no respecter of persons," for he

had a very different manner with which to treat the gentleman from that

he gave the laboring man. He was suspicious of the latter, even in his

Sunday broadcloth, and when he met him clad in overalls and jumper he

greeted him with a canine fusillade that was irrepressible. For rags and

dirt, despite his very questionable past and decidedly suggestive name,

Mud had a great antipathy. The sign "No admittance to beggars and

pedlers," which decorated the lower hall, was quite unnecessary after

Mud became a tenant, for he could pick these gentry out, no matter how

skilfully disguised, and indeed showed qualities which would have made

him invaluable in Scotland Yard.

He was forever on the move, and could tire out the most persistent

visitor in any sort of a game. Mud's favorite was a sort of "rough and

tumble" in which his opponent tried to bury him in the sofa pillows, and

out of which he always emerged with every hair on end, his eyes like

live coals, and his voice cracked from his efforts to make himself heard

under a pyramid of cushions.

Shack tried to keep his hand in for the "hammer throw," and practised

rather intermittently when football gave him a few spare moments. Then

was Mud in his particular glory. He would trot to the gymnasium at his

master's heels, watch gravely from one of the long benches while Shack

stripped and dressed, and then follow him into the middle of the field

with an unmistakable air of pride.

When Shack took the hammer in hand Mud would begin to whimper, and as it

whirled faster and faster round Shack's head, the howl grew more and

more crescendo until the missile took to flight, with Mud after it so

fast that it seemed as if he must sometime get the good sixteen pounds

on the middle of his back.

So great was the danger that Shack hit upon the expedient of having Mud

guard his sweater, which turned out to be the only way to keep the

energetic little fellow still. It was surprising too what a changed dog

he became when this responsibility was put upon him. He watched

suspiciously every one who approached, and there was no friend near

enough to be allowed to encroach on the forbidden ground occupied by

Shack's old sweater. Marlowe tried to pull it away suddenly one day, and

left a piece of his sleeve between Mud's sharp teeth as a memento of

the encounter.

It was after two or three weeks' residence in Shack's hospitable

quarters that Mud attained the zenith of his popularity and became

mascot of the class of 188-. In fact, he bade fair to attain the very

pinnacle of a dog's ambition, and to occupy the position of "luck

bringer" to the whole college.

His predecessor had been a brindled bulldog of such extraordinary

ugliness that it approached the beautiful, but he had fallen into

disgrace after allowing the Freshmen to win the deciding game of

baseball in the Spring, and the class had not filled the vacant place

until Mud came to ornament it.

Shack failed this year to make the big team and played on his class

eleven, where he was a bright particular star. In the first game with

the Freshmen which they won, Shack at "centre," and Mud as mascot on the

side lines, divided the honors, and the game went eighteen to nothing in

their favor. After this Mud was solemnly installed in his position by

Seever, who gave him a charge much like that to a newly installed

minister, and to which Mud listened very seriously, with his head on one

side, as he sat on a big chair with Shack's cap over his left eye.

It was hoped that Mud would furnish sufficient magic to make his class

winner in the game with the Seniors, which would decide the college

championship. When the day arrived he appeared at the gymnasium with an

enormous ribbon at his throat and much pride in his breast. He was so

distinctly elated that when Marlowe threw Shack's moleskin trousers at

him and told him to "Shake 'em," he declined to descend to so

undignified a sport.

No, his game was to be football that day.

It was late in October, and there was a thin mist threatening rain,

through which they travelled to reach the gridiron on which the struggle

was to be fought out. It was rather a rough field, with the trees all

around it, and the ground was quite covered in places by the dead maple

leaves. There was a mixed mob composed of the two classes; much

enthusiasm and more noise.

Mud was installed in a place of honor on the side lines close to the

centre, and for a throne was given Shack's old sweater and told to

"Watch it."

Immediately across could be seen the Senior mascot, a very disreputable

Billy goat, "bearded like the pard" and with only one horn left. When

Mud got a glimpse at his rival, nothing but a distinct sense of duty

restrained him from an immediate attack. When "William" was led,

struggling violently, around the field just before the game started, Mud

ran out on the long sleeve in a vain effort to reach his very

disreputable-looking enemy, but even then could not be tempted to leave

his precious charge.

He became very much excited when the men took their places for the

"kick-off," and barked furiously at every "down" during the first

"half." It was a hard old game, too, and one remembered long after.

Class games are often more severe than contests with outside teams, for

class rivalry is very strong, and there are not the same pains taken to

restrain roughness. The Seniors kept bucking the line fiercely, and

Shack at "centre" had all the fun he wanted holding his ground against

repeated assaults. He was well backed up, however, by Marlowe on one

side and Terry on the other, and the "half" ended with the score six to

nothing in favor of the Sophs.

It was a proud moment indeed for little Mud when he was led around the

field with the big ribbon on his neck, and so important did he feel that

he did not even notice old "Billy," although he trotted close by him.

The Seniors started in with the same tactics when the whistle blew

again, although they had not been at all successful. Not a "round the

end" play did they make, and they were at last rewarded for their

perseverance by knocking the wind out of Marlowe so completely that he

was obliged to retire.

The man that took his place was sandy enough, and well up in the game;

but he was too light to keep his feet on the soft ground, and it did not

take the Seniors long to discover that a plunge at "right guard" was

good for from two to five yards every time. Old Shack gave all the

assistance he could, but he was fairly well employed in attending to his

opposite, and the result was that the ball was worked slowly but

steadily up the field with every prospect of being carried over the

Sophs' line.

Nothing but the call of time could save them, and they lined up more and

more slowly, struggling desperately and praying for the sound of the

whistle. Down the lines the spectators followed, cheering hoarsely, and

cutting up the soft turf like a huge drove of cattle. There were but two

more minutes of play and a scant five yards to make. Old Shack had a cut

over his right eye, and a little stream of blood trickled down his

mud-stained cheek. He was steaming like a "yoke of oxen," and his canvas

jacket was drenched with sweat, one stocking was down over his shoe, and

a sleeve of his jersey was gone, showing the huge arm with its corded

muscles.

He knew well enough that the "touchdown" must come unless something was

done, but no good chance did he get until the ball was inside the

five-yard line. "Four-twelve-twenty" called out the "quarter back," and

the big "senior centre," crouching low against Shack's strong shoulder,

snapped the ball back just as he had done a hundred times before that

day. He got a bit too low, in fact, for Shack gave him a jerk, and

before the little "quarter" could get the ball out of his hands Shack's

big paw was on him, rolling him over like a kitten, and before he knew

what had happened he had lost the ball, and Shack had it snugly tucked

under his arm.

How the Sophs cheered, and when a moment later the whistle blew they

would have shouldered Shack had he not made it impossible by lying flat

on the muddy ground.

During these last five minutes Mud had been deserted and well-nigh

forgotten, mascot though he was. The crowd had surged up the field where

the fierce struggle was going on, and the little fellow was left all

alone, with nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts. He could look

across to "Billy" on the other side, tied to a post, and alternately

barked at him and whined for the friends who had left him.

Mud had no chains but those of duty, yet for him they were sufficient.

He would very much have liked to follow the crowd, or better still to

have had his own little game of football with "Billy" across the way,

with neither an umpire nor a referee to keep account of distance or

prevent rough play; but here was Shack's precious sweater, and here he

was bound to stay.

It had been raining too for a little while, and the little fellow was

getting cold and wet. He trotted around the narrow limits of his desert

island, giving an occasional shiver of discomfort, and wishing in his

heart that he was in his own snug place by Shack's warm fireside. The

thought of Shack warmed him a bit, despite the cold, and he lay down

again, waiting patiently for his master.

When the whistle blew he sprang to his feet, for he knew as well as

anybody that the game was now over, and when he heard the shouts he gave

a bark or two of triumph. His friends would be back soon, and might

perhaps lead him around the field again. He could not see very well, for

it was almost dark, and still the crowd lingered at the far end of the

field. At last they began to come toward him; at first moving slowly,

then more hurriedly at the thought of dinner, until some started to

run, and there was a big rush for the narrow path which opened through

the trees not far from where Mud stood.

The latter saw them coming, and he waved his stump of a tail and wiggled

his little body as he thought of the hand touches, and the "Good old

Mud" he was so soon to hear from Shack himself.

The crowd came like a wide, wide sea; but little Mud had no thought of

danger until they were close to him. He saw the big wave about to roll

over, he half turned as if for flight, and then, crouching low, he

sprang at the first man who set foot on the sweater he was left to

guard. He made no sound, and in the darkness and confusion the wave of

humanity swept over him, and did not pause until it left him crushed and

scarce alive. When Seever saw him as he followed the rushing mob, the

little fellow was dragging himself painfully back to the big sweater and

had a bit of gray cloth in his sharp teeth, which he had torn from the

first intruder.

Shack was giving a shoulder to Marlowe when some one cried out, "Shack,

old man, Mud's hurt;" and he left Marlowe in an instant, and was off

like a shot with a dozen men after him.

When they reached the crowd that clung in a dense circle, much as on the

first night, they found Mud lying on the sweater, his poor little body a

shapeless thing.

Shack bent over him with a groan, then lifted him tenderly in his arms,

and for a moment there came in the little fellow's fast-glazing eyes the

light of recognition. He licked the big hand that held him so carefully,

shivered a little, crept close to Shack's stained jacket, trembled a

little longer, and then lay still at last on Shack's broad breast.

[Illustration: How Kitty Queered The Mile]

I hear it whispered every now and again that the reason a probable

winner disappoints is because he is drugged. This is why that quarter on

which Tom White had a mortgage goes to an inferior man, and because of

this Jack Lewis, who was yards better than his field, is beaten out in

the "run in" of the "220" hurdles.

Now, I am prepared to say, after a longer track experience than falls to

the lot of most men, that in almost all such affairs the fault is with

the men themselves, who have either not done their work, or, more likely

still, have overtrained and gone stale.

Indeed, I honestly believe that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred

the best man wins because he is the best man, and the rest of the field

lose simply because they have not the legs, lungs, heart, or courage

necessary to bring them in first. There is mighty little "hocus-pocus"

business in amateur athletics, and the atmosphere of the cinder-path

is, after all is said, as pure as any on earth, not excepting that of

politics and the legal profession.

I know a very few events where men were drugged to put them out of

contests, but they are, in the main, uninteresting tales which I do not

care to tell.

In the little crack I mean to have with you, although no drugs were

used, there is about the clearest case of "fix" I know, and, what is

more to the point, I'll bet a fiver you will read it to the end.

I became acquainted with Kitty Murray when I was putting the finishing

touches to the athletic team of a large New England academy, just what

and where I cannot say, for very obvious reasons.

They had on their list an annual contest in field sports with a rival

academy, and called in outside training talent only six or eight weeks

before the games.

Kitty, with whom I struck up a friendship a day or two after my arrival,

was a little English girl, as fresh and fragrant as an "Old-Country"

rose such as I used to find long ago in a distant Lancashire garden. She

was only five years over, and it seemed like going back again just to

hear her talk. We became great friends during my stay in the little

town, and I shall never quite forget her.

I hope the story I am about to tell will not be thought to reflect on

her, and it will not, unless I bungle badly in the telling of it. Now, I

do not, of course, defend the "queering" of a race, and Kitty as surely

put a contestant out of winning place as if she had used a drug, yet it

was not done for money. The man did not deserve to win, and I confess I

like her all the better for the deed.

Kitty's father had come from an Oldham factory, thinking, like many

another, that in America he would own his mill within a five year. The

five years had passed, and he was still running his eight looms in the

big weave-shed by the river, where he first went to work.

Kitty had tended her five looms by his side for a year or so, and then

found more congenial as well as more remunerative surroundings in a

little store near the academy grounds.

This store occupied the lower story of a dwelling-house, which had been

built out toward the street, until its wooden porch infringed on the

sidewalk, and its flight of long steps rose from the edge of the gutter.

Whether it fractured any of the town ordinances by preempting the

sidewalk in this way I do not know, but it had a particularly inviting

appearance, like a host coming half way to meet you, and the porch,

sheltering from sun and shower, was a perfect drag-net for customers.

The front was all window, and the stock in trade plainly visible from

the opposite side of the street. Here was candy in jars on the shelves

and in trays on the counter, fruit in boxes and baskets by the windows,

a huge soda fountain near the door, and an ice-cream parlor back of the

store, with its horrible marble-topped tables, like gravestones awaiting

the inscription of "Sacred to." I have travelled a bit, first and last,

but nothing more dismal than an American ice-cream parlor do I remember

to have seen.

While it cannot be denied that Kitty's confectionery was often stale,

her fruit flavorless, her soda frothy, and her ice-cream as full of

starch as a Chinese laundry, Kitty herself was all right, and fresh and

dainty enough to offset all the deficiencies of her wares.

I can see her now, as I tell this story, with her bright "Old-Country"

blushes, her soft brown hair, her blue eyes, and her trim little figure

which her gowns always fitted so snugly. She was a marvel of neatness

from ribbon to shoe tip, and was rather extravagant in the matter of

foot-gear, for Kitty had a sweet foot and ankle of her own, concerning

which she was not ignorant.

Cap'n Holden, the proprietor of the store, was a long, lank Vermonter,

who had run a ding-dong race with consumption for twenty years, and was

likely now to make an age record ahead of many a hearty man. He lived in

a couple of rooms back of the ice-cream parlor, and left the management

of the store very largely to Kitty, doing the drudgery, and leaving the

high artistic to his assistant, content to find the money-drawer

comfortably filled each night.

There was a steady stream of the academy boys flowing in and out the

door of Holden's store all day, ruining their digestions, and going

broke on pocket-money for the sake of basking in Kitty's smiles. A

clever little business woman was she, too, for eighteen years, and very

well aware of her worth, as Mr. Holden had learned to his cost, for he

paid her what seemed a fabulous salary.

Now, my coming to the town was a serious misfortune to Kitty's business.

The taking some thirty of her best customers and forbidding their

accustomed indulgence in sweets, under penalty of not making the team,

must have resulted in serious inroads on her trade.

She laughingly took me to task for this, one morning, soon after my

arrival, asking me how I expected her to get her living, and declaring

that Mr. Holden was looking at the poor-house with fearful glances. And

then, as I leaned on the counter, she began to pump me in a very pretty

way concerning the academy's chances in the coming games, showing an

especial interest in the mile. Would I please tell her who would win in

this event?

Now, it must not be thought that I have been in the habit of giving tips

to inquisitive young ladies, for one thing a successful trainer must

learn is to hold his tongue; but in this case there was no secret

involved, and almost no money on, so I told her frankly that there were

only two men of any use at all, Black and Harris.

Well, would I please tell her (ladies always say "please" in a

particularly wheedling way when they ask what they know they should

not),--would I please tell her which was the faster.

I answered that Harris was a very neat little runner who would win in

average company, but that Black's stride was too much for him, and

Harris could not show within five seconds of Black's time for the

distance. Here the corners of Kitty's pretty mouth dropped most

suddenly, and I then and there surprised the secret that under the folds

of her flowered muslin lurked a shy liking for Jack Harris.

This was not at all to be wondered at, for Jack was a mighty nice boy,

pleasant to every one, and a fine performer in almost all branches of

sport. Black was about the same age as Harris, nearly twenty, and,

unlike Harris, was tall and dark, and rather surly and superior. They

were both to leave for college at the end of the year, considered

themselves men grown, and cherished a mighty strong liking for little

Kitty. They were equally anxious to win the "mile," and to this end had

trained very conscientiously, breaking the tape in the sight of Kitty's

bright eyes being, after all, the strongest incentive.

I talked quite freely with the little girl, for she reminded me of old

Lancashire, and she on her part took no particular care to conceal the

fact that she should like very much to see Jack Harris win.

As the days went by I took special pains with Jack, but though he

improved nicely he could not quite reach Black, and as the time of the

contests approached I could give Kitty no encouragement, much as I

should have liked to do so.

The very night before the games I went into the store and, in answer to

her question, told her plainly that unless Black was taken suddenly ill,

he would certainly best Jack, and that from all reports Harris was just

as sure of second place, as the other academy had only moderate talent

to offer in the "mile."

"And would Jack win, then, if Black was out of it, or a bit off?" she

asked, with a little tremble of disappointment in her voice.

I answered that a race was never won until the tape broke, and the

judges had given their decision, but that it certainly looked that way;

and while Kitty was weighing out some peppermints to an old lady, with

an ounce of smiles for which she did not charge, I passed quietly

through the ice-cream parlor into Mr. Holden's little den in the rear.

Holden and I were quite cronies by this time; we often chatted together

of an evening, and I dropped quite naturally into a rocking-chair near

the door, which was ajar, and through which I could get a good view of

the store without being myself observed.

He was reading the "Boston Globe" with the aid of his glasses, his pipe,

and a pitcher of hard cider. He filled me a glass of the last, pushed

the tobacco-jar across the table toward me, and handed me the sporting

half of the paper without a word. I took a drink, lit my pipe, and

pretended to read the paper, keeping a close watch on the front shop

meanwhile.

Now, I had a method in all this, which was to be where I could see that

none of the boys broke training in this most dangerous place, on the

night before the contests. I had given the boys a much more rigorous

course of training than was usual, and was a bit afraid of some of them,

not accustomed to deprivations of any kind.

I sat smoking my pipe, and reading my paper, a fragment at a time,

customers coming and going, but saw nothing of interest until about nine

o'clock, when Harris entered, looking particularly well in tennis

flannels and sweater. He bade Kitty a "good evening," in that pleasant

way of his, and asked for a pound of mixed chocolates.

"A pound of mixed chocolates!" exclaimed Kitty, instantly alert. "Why,

Jack Harris, you know you ought not to touch a single piece, and you to

run to-morrow! Not an ounce will I give you."

I think Harris was pleased at the motherliness of the little girl, for

he told her without any chaffing that the candy was intended for his

sisters, who were spending the night at the hotel, with their aunt. "Do

you know, Kitty," said he, "they would not give up their chocolates to

win a world's championship?"

"I would, then," said Kitty. "It must be splendid to go over the line

first, with the rest following after. I suppose that's what you'll do

to-morrow."

"Not likely," he answered frankly; "Black is yards better, and unless he

has a stroke of paralysis in the stretch, I shall have the pleasure of

following him in, and must content myself with second place or worse."

"Oh, Jack," said Kitty, "I wish you could win; you must win. Can't I

help you in some way?"

"I don't know how," he answered, "unless you can furnish me a pair of

legs as long and as good as Black's, and they are hard to find."

"Don't joke," said Kitty, with a look of reproach. "If I were you I'd

beat him without any legs, I'd get ahead, and stay there if it killed

me."

There was in this just a hint of reflection on the boy's courage, but it

was given in such good heart, that he could not take offence, and he

laughed in rather a forced way and said, "I suppose I am an awful duffer

not to be able to call the trick, for I have worked my best, and not

thrown away a single chance. The truth is that Black is a better man at

the distance, has been as careful as myself, and is not likely to take

any liberties with himself until the race is over. I saw him a little

while ago, and he was looking 'out of sight.'"

At this there was silence for a little, for the outlook was certainly

quite hopeless. From my seat by the door I could see them plainly, and I

felt rather like an eavesdropper, when Kitty put her hand on Jack's

sleeve in her earnestness.

They made a pretty picture with their flushed faces and easy attitudes,

and I thought of an old garden-gate in Lancashire where there had been

much the same scene long ago.

They talked together a moment or two longer in low tones, and then Kitty

became suddenly conscious, and went back again behind the counter, with

a touch of embarrassment. Jack took his box of candy, and said "Good

night," stopping at the door a moment to say, "Win or lose, I shall do

all I know. I promise you he shall know he has been in a race, and I

shall run clear out, or run a winner."

There were only a few more customers, for we kept good hours in the

little town, and I was about to take my leave, satisfied that my men

were all in bed, when Black entered.

Now, this was clearly in disobedience of my instructions, which were,

for this night, bed at nine-thirty, and it was now five minutes later by

the clock over the stove. While the training of this academy team was a

small matter for me, some of my best friends whom I had handled on big

college teams were anxious for them to win, had considered the matter

well-nigh settled when they had prevailed on me to take them on, and I

had been very strict and painstaking in my handling of them. I was

naturally provoked that Black should openly disobey instructions, and I

sat back in my chair to watch developments.

I do not remember what Black said, but he made an effort to be agreeable

which was not particularly successful. There was something about his

manner indicating condescension, which was not at all pleasing to

Kitty's democratic spirit. She very promptly took him to task for being

out after hours, and with a very different tone from that used when

reproving Jack Harris.

"I don't mean to be dictated to by any old played-out martinet of a

trainer," said he gruffly. "It is all well enough for those who have no

sure thing. I saw Harris going to his room fifteen minutes ago, but I'll

sleep when I like, and beat him then."

At this very foolish and boasting remark, involving also a reflection on

Jack's prowess, I could see Kitty's eyes flash, and her cheeks redden,

and then there came over her face a very peculiar expression of

determination I could not at all understand. She changed gradually from

indifference to interest, and finally said, with a well-assumed air of

admiration, "It must be splendid to be so sure of winning; and don't you

have to train at all?"

"Deuced little," he answered; "I go through the motions with old Brown,

but eat and drink just what I like, and sleep four or eight hours, as I

prefer."

Now, this was a bare-faced lie, and his sin found him out as quickly as

in any "goody" book I ever read, for Kitty went on to say in her pretty

way, becoming every moment more genial and fascinating, "Isn't that

nice? then you can take a soda with me before I start for home."

Remember that I was all the time in the back room with Mr. Holden,

listening to the talk, rather hot under the collar at Black's "old

played-out martinet," and wondering what in the world little Kitty was

plotting.

Black looked a bit doubtful at her offer; he had trained to the dot, and

did not mean to throw away a single chance to win, but such an

invitation from Kitty was an unheard-of honor, he could not very well

eat his words, so he consented with an assumed alacrity, and Kitty

proceeded to draw a glass of soda for him.

And such a glass of soda as it was! If Mr. Holden had seen it he would

have had a fit; nothing like it had ever gone over his counter, expense

was not considered, and profit there could have been none. I could see

the whole devil's brew myself, but Black could not, for Kitty stood

between him and the glass.

First she put in a double quantity of heavy, thick chocolate, then a

liberal lump of ice-cream, and finally hardly enough soda to mix them.

She drew a glass of Vichy for herself, and I watched as they drank, and

chatted, and laughed together.

Now, what were the reasons why I did not interfere, while my best

mile-runner was getting outside of this horrible mixture?

The first was, that we did not need him to win the "mile"; the second

was, that his remarks concerning myself were not inclined to make me

care for him personally; the third was, that I thought defeat might

teach him a much-needed lesson; and the last and most potent, I must

confess, was, that I had not the heart to spoil Kitty's wicked little

game, which she was playing so beautifully.

As I said before, it was as clear a case of "fix" as if she had given

him a drug, and between a mild dose of poison and the glass she mixed,

there was little for an athlete in training to choose.

I sat in the back room for at least a half-hour longer, and saw Black

drink three more glasses of different flavors, chosen with special

reference to their baleful effects; and so pleasant and jolly was Kitty,

and so happy was Black, that I am sure she could have substituted a dose

of rhubarb without his notice.

It was after ten o'clock when Kitty put on her hat, and I afterward

learned that she talked a full hour longer with him at her gate, an

unheard-of thing for Kitty, who was particularly careful of gossip, and

it was midnight when he rolled into bed.

He must have had the digestion of an ostrich not to have been

immediately and positively ill; but he was not, and barring a little

lack of color, he gave no indication of his previous night's

extraordinary training, when he went to the mark for the mile.

It had been a mighty busy day for me; the boys were young, some of them

had never been contestants before, and they were nervous and uncertain.

I got through the morning as best I could, giving advice here, answering

a question there, telling some little fellow with a white face that

there was no doubt of his winning, and another, who was over-confident,

that he had no chance unless he followed instructions to the dot.

Dinner over (for at our boarding-house we dined at noon) I started for

the "grounds," which were over on the other side of the little town.

The wide street was well dotted with carriages, and the sidewalks

crowded with townspeople, country folk, and a liberal sprinkling of the

supporters of the rival academy. Most of the mill-hands were out, and

the rattle of the looms was subdued, half of them being silent.

I threaded my way through the mob as best I could, for, every few feet,

some one would buttonhole me to ask a fool question. Then again, did you

ever notice how much harder it is to work your way through a crowd of

country people than one of equal density in the city? There is a

sluggishness and inertness very different from the quick movements of

those whose feet are accustomed to tread city paves.

However, when I got beyond the shopping quarter, where the

dwelling-houses began, the streets were free enough, and I crossed over

to the south side, the day being warm, and the shade of the elms

grateful. I was passing Holden's store, when Kitty appeared in the

doorway, as if by accident, and with a very pretty look of mingled

surprise and pleasure. She looked as if she had just arrived from

Arcadia, or had stepped out of a Dresden dish, with her fresh muslin

figured with little sprays of flowers, a big hat on her soft brown

hair, and a parasol in her hand which displayed the academy color.

Her cheeks were bright, and grew a shade brighter as she asked, "Please,

Mr. Brown, may I walk along with you?" Receiving my very hearty assent

she tripped down the steps and across the street, taking special pains

to save the figured muslin from the dust of the street. I think I said

that Kitty's ankles were irreproachable.

Although it was very evident Kitty had been to some pains to see me, I

found her very silent and preoccupied. She had said not much more than a

silly word or two about the weather, when we reached the Lee place,

where she said she must leave me, as she had promised to stop for Sally

and Kate. As she put her hand on the latch of the gate she gave me the

first hint of what was burdening her mind by asking, "Are the boys all

feeling well?"

I said, "Yes, as far as I know," and then to try her, "though Black

looks a bit queer, for some unaccountable reason."

"That's too bad," answered Kitty, with considerable affectation of

sorrow, as she swung the gate open; but I noticed a little widening of

the mouth, and a tell-tale dimple in her cheek almost betrayed her. Not

once did she raise her eyes to mine either, something very unusual with

her, for she had the frankest glance possible.

I watched her as she mounted the steps and rang the bell, and then

walked on beneath the tall elms, philosophizing over that most

interesting subject, "a woman and her ways," something the masculine

mind cannot understand, but likes to struggle with.

The track was in the centre of the "campus," an enclosure of several

acres of soft green turf, fringed and fenced by its row of tall trees.

Around the track the spectators were gathering, and the grand stand was

beginning to fill. All the officials and most of the contestants were

already inside the ropes, the former bustling around with their

bright-colored badges flapping, and extremely busy doing nothing; the

latter, in their spotless trunks and jerseys, with bare brown legs and

arms, looking "sweet enough to kiss," so I heard a pretty little matron

say on one of the lower seats. Indeed, I know few finer sights than a

young fellow, clean-limbed and lithe, trained to perfection, with eyes

bright, and face darkened by the sun, waiting in his running-togs, with

a background of green grass, and overhead the cloudless sky.

As soon as I got among them, the boys flocked around me, and after a

hearty word or two I sent the team off by the catcher's fence, a little

beyond, for there were no dressing-rooms, and I wanted to know where to

find them. Jack was looking "finer than silk," and Black not half bad,

although a trifle dark under the eyes. I was not at all sure that even

Kitty's dose was enough to stop him.

Now, I do not propose to say a word about any event but the "mile." This

was the last event on the list, we were comfortable winners already, and

everybody was speculating how badly Black would fracture the record;

there seemed to be no doubt about his winning, and, unpopular as he was,

it was with many admiring exclamations that he ran a few yards to limber

up. His long legs moved like clock-work, and his stride was remarkable.

We had just lost the final heat of the "220," and when the starter's

whistle blew for the "mile" I could see the faces brighten up, for it

was confidently expected that Black and Harris would run first and

second, and leave a pleasant taste in the mouth to take home to supper.

There were six starters, and when Jack took his place on the outside, he

was the finest-looking boy of the lot. Not having grown so fast, he was

more rounded and filled out than the others, though he carried not an

ounce of useless tissue. His arms and legs were better developed, and

his face was clean cut as a cameo.

Kitty sat directly on a line with the tape, on the top row of seats,

between the Lee girls. One of them, I could see, was keeping a watchful

eye on the west, where the thunder heads were gathering.

But Kitty did not see any clouds, not she. She did not care if the

deluge came after this race; and what was a shower, or a wet gown? She

was red and pale by turns, breathing hard, and had both elbows on the

top rail behind her, as if to brace herself for the ordeal. Wonderfully

attractive was she in this attitude of repressed excitement, and though

the grand stand was full of pretty girls, dressed in their best bibs and

tuckers, I saw none to compare with her.

When Jack glanced up at her, she leaned forward and waved her hand,

giving him a look that brought the color to his cheeks. But when he

turned, got on his mark, and put out his hands, his flush faded, the

half smile disappeared, and in their place came as stern a look of

resolution as I ever saw in a boy's face.

And yet I doubted he could win.

True, he was just the one to do a shade better in competition than in

training, but Black was likely to do no worse (unless pulled back by the

sodas), and with a strong five seconds to the good, it was a beautiful

race to guess on.

"Marks! Set!" The bang of the pistol, with its little wreath of smoke

rising in the still air, and they are off. "Crunch, crunch, crunch"

sound the quick feet on the cinders, a stout fellow, not half trained,

taking the lead, and bound to drop out before the "half," unless I am no

judge. They disappear a second behind the catcher's fence, emerge again,

swing round the turn, straighten out again, and the men are well

trailed, as usual, at the lower turn. Down the stretch they come, and

just before they pass the posts Black jumps into the lead, amid the

applause of the grand stand. Where is Jack? Why, where he ought to be

with the pace like this, and three-quarters more to run. He has followed

my orders to the dot, starting off easily (one of the almost impossible

things to teach a young runner), trailing behind the field, and he

finishes the first quarter last of the six, and a full twenty yards

behind Black, running strong and well, though not so showily as his

rival.