Round the track they swing again, two men dropping out at the lower
turn, already run off their feet, and one of them the stout fellow, as I
expected. Indeed, as they pass the posts the second time all have come
back a bit to Jack but Black, and Kitty's face is touched by grim
despair, for that dreadful twenty yards still stretches between the one
she wishes to win and the one she tried to put out of the race.
On the third quarter Jack lets out a link, picking up one after another,
until only Black leads him, and when they start on the last lap he is
running strong and fairly fresh, only ten yards behind, and the rest
trailed badly.
Kitty's face is the queerest mixture of hope and fear I ever saw.
Black runs with the confidence of repeated victories in trials, and
attempts to open up the gap again; but Jack has a bit up his sleeve
still, answers with a little spurt of his own, will not be denied, and
is only a bare five yards to the bad as they straighten out for the last
hundred yards.
Here Black glances over his shoulder, and I can see his look of
surprise. Jack has never been so close up at this stage of the game. It
is evident that both the boys are approaching "Queer Street," "Queer
Street" with its pounding heart and panting lungs, its parched mouth,
singing ears, and leaden feet. Both are game to the core, and it is now
only a question of endurance. Here is the runner's purgatory, where the
sins of the past are settled, and here it is that Kitty's ice-cream
sodas take a hand in the sport.
What would Black give if he had not imbibed their awful sweetness?
Inch by inch Jack draws up on him, his jaw set, his eyes aflame, his
stride shortening, but still quick and straight. Black's face is leaden,
his eyes glassy, his long legs giving at the knees at every stride.
Down the stretch they come, the crowd on its feet, but too excited to
yell, Kitty with her hand over one eye, and her handkerchief tight
between her white teeth.
For twenty yards they run almost side by side, and then Jack pumps ahead
and breaks the tape, a winner by a scant yard. Black follows over in a
heap, staggers a step or two, and falls before any one can catch him.
Sick, was he? Well, rather!
He had a touch of colic that doubled him up like a grasshopper. He
groaned and coughed, he writhed and twisted, like a lobster on the
coals. I knew it was not a dangerous matter, and gave him little
sympathy, extracting a half confession concerning his training escapade
of the previous evening.
Kitty, the little Jezebel, blushed like a rose when Jack waved his hand
at her, as he was carried off on the shoulders of some enthusiastic
friends.
Little did he know how he came to win over a faster man; little did
Black understand there had been a plot for his undoing; and unless she
reads this story, Kitty will always think her secret is a secret to all
the world.
[Illustration: Atherton's Last Half]
Back in the mountains of North Carolina, where the air is like a tonic,
free from all taint of river mist and swamp malaria, and medicined by
the fragrance of pine and hemlock, lives Teddy Atherton.
His house is perched on a spur of the mountains, and can be seen with a
good glass from Asheville on a clear day. It has green blinds, tall
wooden pillars, and granite steps. It is the pattern that New England
builders used to fancy fifty years ago or more, and looks a bit strange
in its setting of mountain and forest. Here Teddy spends his time among
his books, fishing and hunting, in the company of his dogs, or the
society of an occasional friend, truant from business or profession.
For a few weeks only in midsummer he risks the dangers of our east
winds, and is seen at the Somerset and Country Clubs, much to the
gratification of a host of friends.
He has had me South with him a couple of times, and never goes back
without inviting me to dine with him. I always accept, though the
pleasure of his society is more than offset by painful recollections. We
linger long at the table over my favorite madeira, and we talk of the
old days, the old contests, and the old boys, grown now to be stout
merchants, lawyers, and I know not what. Some of them have lads who will
bring new honor to names already famous on track and field, and some,
alas! have been beaten out by that famous runner and certain final
winner, old Death himself.
Often, as I sit and watch Atherton across the table, there comes into my
eyes, not at all accustomed to such a freak, so clear a hint of
moisture, that nothing but a mighty volume of smoke saves me from
detection.
He is a small man, five feet five or less, and not exceeding eight stone
in weight. His closely shaven face is thin and brown, his eyes dark and
full of fire, his mouth firm and sensitive. There is nothing of the
despairing or helpless invalid about him; his shoulders are square, and
his movements resolute; yet he knows, and I know, that his life hangs by
a thread. I know whose fault it is, in part at least, that his days are
numbered, that his chest is hollow, and that, despite his self-control,
he cannot restrain every now and again that hacking cough.
I shall tell the story, not because I like to, but as a warning to those
who are willing to make a winner, no matter what the risk or cost.
Late on an afternoon, just before the inter-collegiate games of 188-,
there sat on the gymnasium steps a group of college sports, with heavy
brows and serious minds.
Even the weather was dubious, for the wind had worked round into the
east, the clouds were gathering, and the air was damp and dismal. What
few men there were on the track wore sweaters, and one or two had pulled
long trousers over their trunks to keep their legs warm. The elms had
got their heads together, as if conspiring mischief, and we had talked
ourselves pretty well out, with no good results.
We had that day given the team a serious "try out," and were fairly
contented with its showing in all the events but the "half."
There was no question about it, Bates could not call the trick; that is,
not with his present showing.
We all agreed that he was good enough, but he had no head at all. He ran
his second quarter to the "queen's taste," and finished strong and well;
but on his first lap he sogered like a Turk, and came in at least five
seconds slow. He had no idea whatever of pace, was not a sprinter, and
was easy for any opponent with a turn of speed, who would trail him
round and pass him in the stretch.
We had told Sherman (who had no chance to win, and knew it) to run the
first lap in fifty-nine, instructing Bates to stay with him. Bates
stayed all right, but Sherman was as far off as the man he paced,--in
the first trial running in sixty-three, which was as bad as ever; and in
the second pulling him out to fifty-six, so that neither finished.
The question was, who should make pace for Bates.
There were, sprawling on the steps that night, beside myself, Griffith,
Smith, "Doc," and of course Tom Furness, for Tom had missed few such
conclaves in the last half-dozen years.
Now, the public knows pretty well who wins the events, but mighty little
about the planning and contriving by which the athletic material of a
college is developed and made the most of. Upon us five rested much of
the responsibility for making winners of the team of 188-. With me it
was a matter of business and professional standing; to the others, the
glory of their college, and the personal satisfaction of having added
to it. All of them were practical men, who had in days gone by carried
their college colors, and Tom Furness had been a mighty good athlete,
who had put a record where it stood untouched for a good five years. Tom
was tall, fair, and sanguine. An optimist by nature, he never dreamed of
anything but success, was a favorite with the graduates, while the
college worshipped him. I never saw the man who could put heart into a
losing team like Tom Furness.
Just below him sat "Doc" Peckham, dark and silent. He was short and
brown bearded, the very opposite of Tom, and had a rather embarrassing
way of puncturing Tom's pretty bubbles. He was not so well liked as
Furness, but was after all fully as valuable an adviser. He had a good
practice in the city, but managed, in some way, to leave it whenever he
was needed. Griffith and Smith were men who, as a rule, agreed with the
majority, and myself in particular; so they were quite as useful as if
they had been perpetually inventing foolish plans.
We had been silent a full minute, which is not long for a crowd of
college "gray-beards," when Tom Furness jumped to his feet with the air
of a man who has made up his mind, expects opposition, but is still
confident of the integrity of his position, and said, "Teddy Atherton's
our man."
"Teddy Atherton be blowed," said "Doc," who sat on the bottom step, his
knees under his chin, drawing inspiration from his pipe. "He's run
nothing but the 'quarter' for the last three years, and while he shows a
fraction slower than Allen and Waite in practice, has a better head, and
I would not give a toss-up for the difference between them."
"That's it," said Furness; "it's Teddy's good head that we want. Now
listen to me. We have three 'quarter milers' who finish under a blanket,
and any one of them is about good enough to win. Allen has shown a shade
the best time, and we certainly cannot pull him out, while Waite would
sulk like a bear with a sore head if asked to make pace, and probably be
worse than useless. Atherton, beside having better judgment, is a
particularly unselfish chap, and if handled right will consent, and fill
the bill exactly."
"Deuced hard on Atherton," said Smith; "he's trained faithfully, has a
chance to win in the 'quarter,' and yet we ask him to sacrifice himself
in the 'half' because Bates is a duffer and will not use his head."
We discussed the matter a while longer, and had barely arrived at an
agreement, when who should come briskly from the gymnasium but Teddy
himself. He jumped down the steps, and was hurrying away, with a joke at
our serious faces, when I spoke up and said (for such uncomfortable
commissions were usually assigned to me), "Wait a minute, Atherton, we
want a word with you."
"All right, old man," he said, "but be quick about it, for I've a dinner
waiting for me that will be cold after seven o'clock." He was fresh from
his shower-bath and rub-down, and looked as if he had stepped out of a
bandbox. We could guess where the dinner was, for Atherton was very
serious about Mollie Kittredge; and whether Mollie smiled or not,
Mollie's mamma was complacent enough, and did her best to give Teddy a
clear track and no contestants. Mollie was a howling favorite, "blonde,
bland, and beautiful," who, it was rumored, did not care to be won by a
"walk-over," and would have liked Teddy better if he had been a bit more
difficult.
Now, I believe it is best to go at once to the point with a disagreeable
matter, so I said bluntly, "I'm sorry, Atherton, but we have decided to
ask you to run in the 'half'; it is a late day to make the change, and
it will, of course, give you no chance to win; but it seems to us the
only thing to do under the circumstances."
The boy winced, looked at us keenly to see if we were serious, then grew
grave and said, rather sarcastically, "Your reasons for selecting me in
particular as the scape-goat are of course good and sufficient, and you
will pardon me for asking what they are?"
I went over the matter with him in detail, assisted by Furness, giving
all our reasons, doing my best to make the project as inviting as
possible; and Atherton finally consented, as we expected. It was,
however, a very serious face he carried off, and one very different from
that which smiled upon us at the beginning. We were all mighty sorry for
the boy, and I felt as if I had committed a petty theft, and deserved
the penitentiary, or worse. I had only been the spokesman for the rest,
and had racked my brains to think of some way to save Atherton from the
sacrifice; but Tom was really unassailable in his position, and even
"Doc" did not oppose him.
I watched the lithe figure as it disappeared around the corner of the
fence, realizing how full of disappointment my message must have been,
and was sorry enough about it.
Atherton had arrived at college without either athletic training or
ambition. A student of the first rank, so that he was known at once
where muscular ability is much more likely to obtain recognition than
mental strength, it was not until his second year that I saw much of
him.
He then took up running, not so much with a view of contesting, as to
fill out his lungs and increase his strength. It was not long, however,
before he began to show decided improvement, and steadily gaining, had
run unplaced, but close up, in his junior year. He had brought himself
out in this way without in the least losing rank as a scholar, and I
knew it was his one remaining ambition to get a place in athletics, and
win a point for the old college on this last competition to which he
would be eligible. If he had been a musty bookworm I should not have
cared so much, but he was a splendid fellow, of good family, and a great
favorite of mine, because of his pluck and good nature.
He appeared next day on the track, as agreed, a little serious, but not
at all disagreeable; which made me feel more guilty than ever. In fact,
I tried to apologize, and for this received, as I deserved, a sharp
answer, that the decision was doubtless correct, and there was no
necessity for further talk.
He listened to my instructions carefully, took Bates along within a half
second of the fifty-nine, and left him in the stretch to finish four
seconds better than ever before. Teddy was badly used up, of course, for
he was not at all accustomed to the distance, and when I gave him a
shoulder to the gymnasium, he was as limp as possible. He took our
congratulations with a half smile, and would not confess that he was
much the worse for the effort.
Tom Furness was much elated, insisting there was no question but that we
had made a change to the advantage of all but Teddy, and it was right
that he should suffer for the good of the cause. It is wonderful with
what complacency we look upon the sacrifice of others.
As I thought it over that night, I had serious doubts about Atherton's
condition, and the next morning I told Furness just how badly he was
used up; but I did not take a decided stand, as I should have done, and
the reason was purely selfish and unworthy. I was, of course, anxious to
win the cup; it meant much to me, and I decided to take the risk.
The day came round, particularly sultry and close. The sky was brassy,
the sun a ball of fire, and what little wind there was felt like the
breath of a furnace.
It was a day to break records, and to break a trainer's heart as well;
for often a man who is right "on edge" will show up limp and lifeless
under such conditions, going stale in a night.
I had changed rooms at the hotel so that the men might sleep with all
the air possible, given them an early breakfast, and got them over to
the grounds before the sun was very hot.
We settled ourselves in the dressing-rooms, and the men stripped at once
for the sake of comfort and coolness. A beautiful sight it was. An
athlete looks much like a city clerk with his clothes on, but stripped
to the buff there is a mighty difference. No weak, skinny legs, no fat
disfigured bodies, no bunched and rounded shoulders.
You may boast of your fine horses and beautiful women, but give me an
athlete in perfect training, particularly if I have had the handling of
him, and have seen the fat disappear and the strong, clean muscle take
its place.
The boys are seated on the long benches or standing in front of the
lockers. Here is the slender figure of a sprinter, not an ounce of
superfluous flesh or unused muscle, the cords of his shapely legs
standing out clear and firm through the satin skin. There is a
shot-putter, stopping a moment to chaff with a friend, stripped to the
waist, his shirt in his hand. See how the mighty muscles stretch across
his breast and back! See the big, square neck, and that right arm and
shoulder, round and firm and hard!
It is not men like the last that I worry about, for the heat will do
nothing but good to an anatomy like this; but the thin and slender
chaps, with not too much vitality at best, and trained close to the
limit--these I look over closely and carefully. I was more anxious about
Atherton than any other, and found him off in a corner by himself, near
the window. Perhaps the most popular man on the team, he was not over
jolly this morning, and the boys saw it, and left him alone. His clothes
were already hung in his locker, in that particularly neat way that some
of the boys might have copied to advantage. He had on his trunks and
jersey, and was lacing his running-shoes.
I asked him how he felt. "All right," he said; but I knew better. The
hot night had told on him, and he was a bit pale and tired-looking. I
told him to get into his wrap, find a cool and comfortable place, and
take it easy until he was wanted. He followed instructions, as usual,
and I saw almost nothing of him until the "half" was called, late in
the afternoon. As usual, we had pulled off some unexpected wins, and
lost several "lead-pipe cinches." The latter, however, were far more
numerous, and I was decidedly on the anxious seat. Indeed, as near as I
could figure, unless Bates won the "half" we were out of it.
Of Sherman we expected nothing; he was put in to fill out the string,
and because a man will sometimes surprise those best informed of his
incapacity.
Bates we hoped would win, and Atherton was expected to run his first lap
in fifty-nine cutting wind and setting pace, to keep on in the second
lap at the same speed until he reached the stretch, where he was to drop
out (probably dead beat), leaving Bates to run in and break the tape.
There was little glory in this programme for Atherton, and I had seen
his face lengthen out when Allen and Waite romped in, first and second
in the "quarter." It was "dollars to doughnuts" he would have made a
strong third or better, and I saw he thought so himself, although he
said nothing.
We had just won a first and third in the high jump, and I was feeling a
little better when the men were called for the "half." I met Teddy in
the middle of the field, and walked along with him to the start. He was
looking very white and serious; but I said nothing at all to hearten
him, for I knew he was clear grit and did not want it.
I did tell him that the race was more in his hands than Bates', and that
from those who knew he would receive all the credit of a win, if he
brought Bates in first. He said not a word in answer, only nodded his
head, threw me his wrap, and went to the mark.
As the numbers were being called, I had a chance to look around me.
There was the usual crowd inside the ring, the officials, the reporters,
and those infernal nuisances the men with a pull, who do nothing, and
interfere with all who have duties to perform.
The grand stand was right in front of me, spread like the tail of a huge
peacock, and a perfect riot of color, for every second person was a
lady, and what better opportunity than this to wear what was loud and
bright? As my eye wandered over the crowd, I began to pick out familiar
faces, for I have a keen sight for a friend.
There was Jack Hart and Tom Finlay, two of my old boys, sitting
together, one of them from Denver, and the other professor in a Maine
college; there was Dr. Gorden a bit lower, and Fred Tillotson with his
pretty wife; there was Charlie Thomas with a little fellow in a
sweater, evidently a dead game sport already, and a chip of the old
block, for his face is red with excitement, and his eyes like saucers
with enthusiasm.
I was taking my eyes away to look at the men, when they fastened on a
figure a few rows from the top. It was that of one of the most striking
girls I have ever seen, as perfect a blonde as even Old England could
show, and with a very British air of reserve, despite the excitement
around her. She was a marvel,--tall and well-developed, groomed and
gowned to the dot. I could see she was looking straight at Teddy in the
calmest style imaginable, but still rather surprised that he did not
return her glance.
But Teddy had for the moment quite forgotten her. He was bent over his
mark, his eyes straight ahead, ready for the first sound of the pistol,
for his instructions were to take the lead from the beginning.
There was a strapping field of a dozen or more, but most of the others
were prepared to take the customary start for a "half"--easy away, and
fast work when heart and lungs had worked up to it.
"Marks! Set!" the crack of the pistol, and Teddy shot out as if for a
sprint, slowing immediately, however, when he had taken his place.
Bates pulled out of the ruck at the turn, and fell in behind him,
following orders. Round the track they swung, stringing out, one and
another coming up and going back as if on wires, but Teddy and Bates
holding the lead. My watch showed fifty-eight and three-quarters as they
finished the first lap, a beautiful performance on Teddy's part, though
I had expected it, for he was a connoisseur on time, if I ever saw one.
There followed them over, and close up, a cadaverous-looking man from
one of the minor colleges, whose style I did not like, but who was going
very strong, and whom I might have thought dangerous had I not been told
he never finished. Sherman was twenty-five yards back, in the rear of
the lot, and running in a very hopeless fashion.
I was relieved to see how well Teddy did his work, and noticed the
slight flush on his cheeks as he passed.
I could see that Mollie Kittredge too had a little added color in her
cheeks, but in no other way did she show any particular interest in the
race.
For the first half of the second lap our programme was followed out all
right, Atherton still leading at a lively clip, Bates right at his
heels, and the tall outsider barely holding his own.
Then the unexpected happened. Bates began to show signs of tiring, fell
back inch by inch, and the tall outsider came up at the same rate. Just
before the lower turn they got together, and there was a short struggle;
but Bates was as arrant a cur as ever wore a shoe, and he yielded the
place, though he had strength enough to run another lap, had he the
heart to go with it.
Teddy was, perhaps, five yards to the good when he swung into the
stretch, and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his college mate
close up and ready to take up the running. Instead, he saw an unexpected
contestant, coming fast, and Bates was full five yards behind, slowing,
and evidently out of it.
Now Atherton was, of course, well-nigh spent; he had followed
instructions to the dot, and was not expected to finish.
There was a half-second's hesitation and a look of fear; but as quick as
he realized the conditions, the little fellow swung his face to the
front and set his teeth with the evident determination of making a fight
for the race.
A mighty cheer went up from the spectators, for Teddy had many friends,
and the whole college knew under what circumstances he was running; but
I doubt if he heard anything but the crunch, crunch, crunch of the
swift feet behind him. I knew it was a hopeless task, for his opponent
was fresh as paint, and full of running. Gradually his longer stride
drew him up, but when he tried to pass, Teddy still had a word to say,
and met him with the most stubborn resistance. He was almost gone, his
face white as death, his eyes glazed, and he kept his speed only by
sheer force of will.
Somehow, I know not how, for I could hardly have taken my eyes from the
runners, I knew that Mollie Kittredge was on her feet with a look of
horror in her face.
Down the stretch they came, the little fellow with the drawn cheeks, and
his opponent tall and strong and confident. Side by side they came,
neither gaining, until perhaps fifteen yards from the finish, when the
big fellow shot by.
Teddy staggered on, but lurched forward, and fell, a few feet short of
the line, just as the winner broke the tape.
He fell without an effort to save himself, plowing through the cinders
with his white face. There was a convulsive struggle to crawl over, and
then he lay still, dead to the world, with one hand stretched out toward
the line.
The half-dozen who finished ran by the motionless figure, and I was over
it a second after. Tom Furness was almost as soon as myself, and
together we lifted and placed it on the soft turf inside the track. We
were surrounded by a crowd of contestants and track officials, but a
cry, followed by a commotion in the grand stand, drew their attention,
and we were left alone.
So full of agony was the cry, that I looked up myself, and was just in
time to see the statuesque Mollie throw up her hands and fall back in a
dead faint. Yes, blondes have hearts, after all.
We were not much troubled by the crowd, for they thought it was only a
man "run out," and that he would be all right in a minute or two, and
walk off as well as ever.
Alas! I knew better; it was a bad case, and I could find little sign of
life in the limp body. We made an effort to revive him, but Tom could
not get a drop from his flask through the clenched teeth, and one side
of the face was bleeding, where it had slid over the cinders. The crowd
was coming back, the spectators were beginning to notice us, so I told
Tom to take the legs, and I took the head and shoulders, and we started
for the dressing-rooms.
A pathetically light weight was it, and I was heart-sick, for, though
one hand was over the heart, I could feel no motion through the thin
jersey. "Doc" joined us at the door, and I was never so pleased to see
any one in my life, for I knew that he would do all that could be done,
and we need not experiment with some one we did not know.
When we got into a quiet room we placed Teddy on a rubbing-couch, and
"Doc" immediately applied the most powerful remedies to revive him. They
were at first unsuccessful, but by hypodermic injections of strychnine
and brandy, the wearied heart and lungs were at last induced to start
feebly on their accustomed tasks.
We were standing by the couch, watching the hint of color grow in the
boy's cheeks, when suddenly the limp figure made a convulsive effort
(consciousness taking up the thread where it had been broken, a few feet
short of the tape), and he almost lifted himself to his feet before we
could catch him. As he fell back in our arms, there came to his lips the
bright-red blood-spots, precursors of a fearful hemorrhage.
It was almost impossible for us to check it, for the boy was delirious,
would not lie still, and kept saying in a determined way, "I will win! I
must win!"
He would turn his head, and call, "Bates! Bates!" in a frenzy of fear
and disappointment. "Bates, where are you? My God, where are you? I'm
sure I followed orders, and did not come too fast."
Then he would find Bates, and say contentedly, "There you are, old man,
close up; I'll drop out now, I'm almost gone; push out and win."
Suddenly he would discover it was the outsider, and would cry out with
fevered lips, and try to break away from us and run.
Then he would lie still, but in his mind was going over the agony of the
finish again and again. He would turn to me and say excitedly, "You told
me I need not finish. I can't run the 'half,' and you know it. It's
dark, and they have run off with the tape. I finished long ago, and
still you make me run."
Sometimes he would drop his hands and say despairingly, "I cannot do it,
I cannot reach the worsted; O God, I cannot!"
Then he would discover Tom, who was almost as crazy as Teddy himself,
and had been utterly useless from the time the hemorrhage set in. He
would say to Tom, "Don't look at me like that, old man; I know I lost
the race, but I did my best, my very best, and ran clear out. Look at my
cheek, where I fell; you must see I was dead beat." He would try to
argue with Tom, who had not a word to say, except of sorrow and
self-reproach. He would look at Tom, and say, "Perhaps you're right,
and I'll not complain, but why did you tell me to set pace, if you meant
to make me finish?" Or he would say over and over again, "I was not
strong enough; I did the best I could; I did the best I could."
Indeed, he did not cease talking all the time we were with him, until he
was given opiates and taken to the hospital.
Here he spent many weary weeks, and was only pulled through after the
most persistent care. But though he got on his feet again, he did not
fully recover, and even a long trip to the Bermudas did not get his
lungs in shape. He spent some months in Southern California, and settled
finally among the Carolina hills, the nearest point to his old New
England home, where he could expect to prolong his days.
I have seen many gallant winners, many whose courage and determination
made them such; but when I tell the story that comes closest to my
heart, I tell of one a notch above them all. I tell of Teddy Atherton,
of his last "half" which he _lost_.
[Illustration: The Charge of the Heavy Brigade]
There were three of us in my office at the gymnasium. It was late
afternoon of a February day. The hail was beating against my windows,
and a punching-bag was drumming the "devil's tattoo" in the next room.
There were all sorts of sounds outside, from the clatter of pulley
weights dropped on the floor to the steady tramp of the runner's feet on
the track overhead, but in my room a Sabbath stillness reigned.
Fred Seever was perched on a chair in one corner ready dressed for
departure, and N. P. Sawyer, familiarly known as "Shack," sat on the
weighing scales clad only in trunks, jersey, and an air of melancholy.
It would not have been a comfortable seat for most anatomies, and the
metal work must have felt chilly; but Shack had eccentric tastes, and
never occupied a chair if he could find anything else to hold him.
I had just remarked in the quietest manner possible, "It is pretty well
settled that Seever does not run this year." This was the cause of
Shack's melancholy and Seever's silence.
"Well, if that's the verdict," said Seever, with considerable heat for
one so quiet, "it's mighty hard lines, and a blooming hothouse plant it
makes of me. I've been planning the whole year to get back at the
Dutchman, and now at the last moment you say I don't start."
"Yes," spoke up Shack, "you should get a glass case for the dear boy,
and put him in it, labelled 'Rare Specimen,' 'A Runner too Good to
Run.'" He followed up this ingenious suggestion by untangling his long
legs, rising slowly to his feet, and suddenly throwing a stray
boxing-glove which he had picked up from the floor, hitting the "Rare
Specimen" a blow in the short ribs that brought forth an involuntary
grunt. "By the way, Professor," he continued, "do you think it quite
safe for a little chap like me to toy with a sixteen-pound shot?
Mightn't I drop it on my precious toes some day?"
"I've told you my reasons plainly enough," I answered, looking up from
my desk and laughing at big Shack in spite of myself. "You remember last
year. Seever went into this same 'mile handicap,' running from scratch.
There were thirty-odd entries, and he was blocked, elbowed, and pocketed
all the way through, getting a toss from Kitson in the last lap that
sent him rolling into a corner with skin enough off his knees to make
parchment for his diploma."
"I wasn't hurt, though," argued Seever, "only sore for a few days."
"'Twas luck that saved you then," I answered; "suppose you'd broken a
leg, as you might easily have done on that hardwood floor, where would
we have been at Mott Haven, with not a man jack of you good for
four-thirty?"
"Give it up," said Shack. "Did you notice that the same field, too, let
the Dutchman through like a greased pig? Hartman had half a dozen club
mates in the lot, and as many more were quite willing to do all within
the law to keep a college man out of it."
"Well," continued I, "Fred Seever is neither a wrestler nor a football
player. These indoor games are all right, and for the average man there
is no better place to learn quickness than in a mob of runners swinging
round the raised corners of a slippery board track. But Fred has had
experience enough, and is sure to appear on the cinder-path with the
warm spring days in good condition if left entirely to himself. In the
second place, he is too slender to take any chances."
"Yes," interrupted Shack, "those pipe-stem legs are marked
'breakable.'"
I concluded with, "The verdict is that, unless I have some good reason
to change my mind, Seever's name will certainly be scratched."
At this there was a dead silence. Shack looked at Seever questioningly,
then shook his head, and began to whistle "Ben Bolt" in a particularly
dismal manner.
When I found they had nothing more to say, I resumed my examination of
the list of entries to the first big "Indoor Athletic Games" of the
season. I had just received it from the "official handicapper," and was
considerably interested to find what my men had been given. They figured
in every handicap, and in the "forty-yard novice" there were no less
than fourteen of them, nearly all Freshmen, with two or three who would
show a turn of speed. There were a few I did not intend should run,
among them Seever, for the reasons I had already given.
These games are a perfect godsend to a trainer, coming as they do at a
time when it is very hard to keep the men up to their work. The
gymnasium is indispensable in a country where from December to April the
cinder-path is either hard with frost or white with snow. But when a man
has done his fifteen minutes at the pulley weights for the hundredth
consecutive afternoon, he finds the excitement of "One, two, three,
four, five, six," begins to pall on him, and by the last of February
even "practising starts" loses its charms. It is then the circuit of a
billiard-table becomes the favorite track work, and the digestion of a
good dinner the principal muscular exercise.
I had checked off about half the names, finding few surprises, when the
quiet of my room was broken by the entrance of a dozen fellows who had
just learned of the arrival of the list. Did you ever hear the work of
that very conscientious gentleman the "official handicapper" discussed
by a crowd of contestants? Of half a dozen men perhaps one is pleased
and says so, two or three have no fault to find but do nevertheless
grumble out of principle, and the remainder "kick like veteran mules,"
and blackguard in shameful fashion the man whose only sin has been to
overrate their abilities.
"What's this?" cried Ferris, a high jumper, looking over my shoulder. "I
get only four inches, and Bob here gets six. That's highway robbery, and
I don't care who knows it. He did five-eight to my five-seven only
yesterday."
"Here's little Larry with five yards in the 'forty,'" spoke up Shack,
who had monopolized the view from my right side, his broad shoulders
shutting off all the rest; "the infant won't do a thing to them, will
he?"
"What do you get yourself?" inquired Turner, who was bigger than Shack,
but not quite quick enough to get a place of vantage.
"That's what I ought to be looking for," answered Shack, "but I always
think of others first. They'll put something of that kind on my
tombstone. Where's the 'shot'?" He ran his big finger down the page,
remarking meanwhile, "I gave Jones [the handicapper] a good cigar only
last week, and told him that I had not been myself the whole winter."
Shack said this with a deep sigh, as if he well knew he was threatened
with an early decline. "I expect to find nothing less than the same old
eight feet for yours truly." His finger suddenly stopped, as he said
this, and then straightening himself with an energy that sent two or
three men flying backward, he exclaimed: "Great Jupiter! Look at that!
Only look at that! And 'twas a good cigar too. He gives me just four
feet, the least of any of you, and Turner here, who tied me this
afternoon, gets the eight instead." At this there was a big laugh at
Shack, whose woes were a joke to all.
Down the list they went until all were informed, and then they gradually
sifted out, leaving Seever and Shack still with me. I could not
understand why they stayed, for they knew well enough that further
argument would be useless; but I paid no attention to them, going on
with my checking.
The "mile handicap" was almost the last event. I crossed out Seever's
name, which figured alone at "scratch," saw that Hartman had his
twenty-five yards, the same as last year, marked off Root at fifty and
Murphy at seventy yards, and then suddenly discovered, just below, the
names of G. Turner and N. P. Sawyer with the same allowances. To say I
was surprised would but faintly express my feeling, as Turner was a shot
and hammer man who had played football, weighed nearly one hundred and
ninety pounds, and had never to my knowledge run a yard on a track in
his life. N. P. Sawyer was the seldom used patronymic of Shack, who had
resumed his seat on the scales in the corner, and was evidently by his
air of expectancy waiting for an explosion. I had sent in neither name,
and was utterly at sea regarding the whole affair.
"Well, Sawyer," said I, turning rather abruptly toward him, "what does
this mean?"
"Simply this," replied Shack, very frankly, as if he had expected the
question and had his answer ready,--"simply this, that I thought we
would pay the devil in his own coin, and give Hartman and his
fellow-pirates of the 'Rowing Club' a taste of their medicine; let the
Dutchman carom against Turner and myself a few times, permit Kitson to
enjoy the experience of a tumble like that he gave Fred last year, and
carry the latter bit of 'rare porcelain' through the mob without getting
chipped."
"A very pretty plan," I remarked sarcastically, "but why was I not
consulted in the matter?"
"Simply because we were doubtful of your consent, and wished to get as
far along as possible before we had our little talk with you."
"Of course," remarked Seever, "we knew you would have the final word to
say, but we thought you would prefer not to have the plan yours, and to
be able to say that you did not even send in the entries."
"That was certainly very thoughtful of you."
"Yes," interposed Shack, "there is a remote chance of a little 'shindy'
when the 'Heavy Brigade' gets well started."
"If you and Turner are mixed up in it, I should think the chances
considerably more than even," I remarked; "but why in the world did two
ice-wagons like you and Turner go into it? You can neither of you run a
mile in ten minutes."
"Ten minutes," cried Shack. "We'll let you hold a watch over us and see.
You said just now that Seever was neither a wrestler nor a football
player. Well, this is, you admit, something of a football game, and we
have a football aggregation for it. Root is in it too. He played 'left
half,' Turner 'right,' and I 'full back' on the team all last fall. Root
has been doing the mile for a couple of years, and is a fair performer.
Turner is a mighty fast man for his weight, and can go the distance. As
for myself, although my well-known modesty shrinks at the assertion, I
am a 'crack-a-Jack' at any distance from one hundred yards to ten miles.
I am indeed. With a seventy-yard handicap Seever has no show with me. I
thought we three could do the trick nicely with a little of the
interference we worked up together and found mighty useful on the
'gridiron.'"
"That's your plan, is it?" I asked. "Well, 'tis as crazy as its maker,
which is saying a great deal."
At this there was silence again, Seever twirling his thumbs, and Shack
running his fingers through his mop of hair in a hopeless fashion.
"I am not sure, however, but that with some modification I shall let you
try it." At this Seever looked a shade less discouraged, and Shack gave
a broad smile of triumph, and then listened with much seriousness as I
said, "In the first place, there must be no interference with Hartman;
do you promise this?"
"We do," answered Shack, who was quite willing to make any condition if
Seever could be allowed to run.
"In the second place, you must make pace for Seever as decently as
possible, and not one of you catch a judge's eye."
"We swear it," replied Shack, raising his big hand solemnly above his
head.
"All right; if you will look out for these things I will let you try. It
is time something was done, and even an extreme step like this may be
the means of straightening matters out."
We talked the affair over for some time together, and when we parted our
plans were well matured. I found that Root, Turner, and Shack had been
training carefully for several weeks with this in view. They had all
done the "mile" in fair time, although the last "quarter" was something
of a task for big Turner. Shack, however, very much to my surprise,
showed me a performance on the short gymnasium track that proved with
seventy yards' start no one on earth could catch him, and the event was
simply at his mercy. Seever begged him to go in for himself and pull
the thing off, and I advised the same; but this did not tempt Shack at
all.
"I had rather see Fred beat out the Dutchman than to win a dozen races,"
he declared, rubbing his hands.
So the affair was settled. I gave him a careful trial a few nights
before the "games," and decided that Hartman with his first mate Kitson
and his "fellow pirates," as Shack called them, were likely to find
rough sailing on Saturday night.
* * * * *
There is an almost endless variety in outdoor games. The weather
conditions alone are enough to make each day stand out by itself. Cloud
and sunshine, heat and cold, wind and calm, not to speak of the
occasional smart shower at about five o'clock when interest is at its
height, make an almost limitless combination.
There is none of this diversity to indoor games. The track is neither
fast nor heavy, and the boards are no softer on one evening than
another. The temperature is always a bit too high for comfort, the air
too close for laboring lungs, and the same bright light glares on all.
There may of course be something in the games themselves to make them
noteworthy, and those of February, 189-, I shall always remember through
the charge of the "Heavy Brigade," so called by Shack, who claimed it
quite outclassed the performance of the "Light Brigade," because the
danger was greater and there were no dead nor wounded.
When I arrived at the "hall" at a little after seven o'clock, they were
preparing to start the preliminary heats of the "forty-yard novice," a
weeding-out process quite necessary, but not particularly exciting. The
"clerk of the course" was calling off the names of the contestants, and
nearly a hundred young fellows were gathered around him, answering one
after the other, as he checked off the list. Some were hidden from
shoulder to toe by voluminous wraps, some wore sweaters of various
shapes and colors, and some were clad only in jersey, trunks, and
running shoes. The officials, who wore their badges and an air of
_blase_ indifference to distinguish them from common mortals, were much
in evidence, and a good-sized squad of carpenters and helpers were
busying themselves around the track.
The men on the floor far outnumbered the spectators, who as a rule were
content to wait for the semi-finals at eight o'clock and enjoy an
unhurried dinner meanwhile. There were a few boys in the gallery, here
and there a little bunch of a half-dozen or so in the seats surrounding
the track, and on the platform only two pretty girls occupied seats on
the very back row, who were anxious to see somebody win his heat,--a
brother perhaps.
In a far corner of the gallery the musicians were arriving. They would
not begin to play for some time, however, and meanwhile the high walls
echoed to every sound, and the long strips of bunting hanging from the
ceiling waved slowly with the wind from the open windows.
I could see among the crowd of contestants who gathered around the white
lines at the start several boys in whom I was interested; but I had
nothing to say to them, and went over to the opposite corner, where the
judges clustered around the finish posts. The red worsted was waiting
for its first break, and beyond, hung against the walls, were the
mattresses to catch the sprinter unable to check his speed. On one side
were the hurdles in a long row ready to be pushed into place. In a third
corner was the seven-foot circle with its raised cleat for the "shot
put," and the last triangle was occupied by the standards and cross bar
for the "high jump." The movable platforms for the raised corners were
in two sections, and pulled apart so as not to interfere with the
"dash."
I had only time for a word or two, a nod here and a handshake there,
when, at a sign from the starter, the judges took their places, and the
timekeepers stood with watch in hand ready to record the flying fifth
seconds. I could look along the smooth floor and see the men take their
places. There was Downer, a little Freshman, white with the excitement
of his first public performance. He was a nervous chap, and one of my
most promising men. Up goes the starter's hand, "Marks," "Set," the
report of the pistol, and out of the circling crowd break the five
struggling forms. There is the beat of eager feet, one, two, three,
four, and between the posts they dash, little Downer coming away in the
last few strides. "Thud" he goes against the mattress; "thud," "thud,"
"thud," "thud," go the other four, and the first heat is over. As they
come back, the judges check off the "37" from Downer's back, his
nervousness all gone, and in its place a confidence for which there is
as little excuse.
There were a score of heats varying little from this, as many more in
the "forty-yard handicap," and when they were finished nearly every seat
in the building was taken, and the platform had blossomed out like a
bank of flowers with the bright colors which the ladies wore. Now the
band starts up with a swinging "March," and everything takes on a new
life.
In the next two hours there was nothing particularly worth recording.
Shack won the "shot put" in spite of the four feet about which he had
complained so loudly, thus proving the astuteness of the much maligned
"handicapper." Sawyer came to me with Root and Turner just before the
"mile" was called, his long wrap dangling loose around his heels, and a
broad grin on his face. He answered my inquiry as to whether everything
was all right with an expressive nod, and then quoted a line or two from
some pathetic ballad in which the horrors of a death on the battle-field
were vividly depicted. He called off the roll very solemnly. Root and
Turner answering to their names, he told them to look to their
accoutrements, to tighten their horses' girths, and when the starter
sent them to their places, he gave the order to "saddle" with great
seriousness, leaving me with a step or two in imitation of a
particularly clumsy charger.
He was fixed with Turner at the seventy-yard mark, among a crowd of a
score of limit men. When they took their places, Shack was well outside
in the first row, and Turner well inside on the second. Root was twenty
yards back with another smaller knot of men at the fifty-yard mark, and
there were half a dozen at the thirty-five.
Fritz Hartman was alone on the twenty-five-yard line, and Seever stood
by himself at "scratch." Fritz was a well put together little chap, with
curly yellow hair, round face, and a great favorite with the gallery and
the "Rowing Club." There were a half dozen of the latter among the
contestants, all of them showing the crossed oars on the breasts of
their jerseys. Seever was almost as fair as the Dutchman, but he was a
bit browner, his hair was darker without the curl, and he stood at least
three inches taller. He kept his wrap on until the last moment, taking
no chances with a draft of cool air which blew from an open window
behind him. I knew there was nothing to be said to him, for he knew his
business perfectly, but took my position near the limit men, who were
having considerable fun with Shack and Turner.
One little fellow told Shack he would be quite a sprinter when he "got
his growth." And Shack confessed he did not feel quite strong enough for
the distance. When Turner pulled off his sweater, revealing his enormous
shoulders and chest, he did appear a bit out of place among the lighter
men around him. One of them said Turner was in good shape, but a "bit
fine," and asked if he had not done a "trifle too much work." Another
declared that Shack was so wide, he blocked the whole track. There
seemed to be an impression that the two big fellows had gone in for a
lark, or with the idea of settling who was the best at the distance, and
with no idea of winning. Of the real plan of the "Heavy Brigade" there
was no sign that any one had the least suspicion.
There was some cheering from the galleries for Hartman when he took his
place, and when Seever threw off his wrap there came a little burst of
applause from the spectators on the platform, and from the seats which
circled the track.
Many remembered Seever's nasty fall of the previous year, and it was
pretty well surmised that he meant to make a mighty hard try to win
where he had failed before. Indeed, by that peculiar telegraphy which
runs through a large crowd, almost every one knew that the "mile" was to
be the event of the evening. Seever was a fine sight in his spotless
running suit, his arms a bit slender, not an ounce of useless weight
above the belt, and his legs long and lithe as a greyhound's. He might
not be a "hothouse plant," but he was certainly not qualified to join
the ranks of the "Heavy Brigade."
The band stops in the middle of a bar at a signal from the "announcer,"
while he calls out the winners of the "high jump" in stentorian tones.
Then comes almost perfect silence as the thirty-odd men bend over their
marks, and are off with the sound of the pistol. They make a noise like
a heavy freight-train, and when the limit men strike the first corner it
was a case of the "ready shoulder" and "useful elbow," sure enough.
Three or four went down, sliding along the smooth boards. A couple were
up almost without loss, but one of them has enough and goes limping off
the track. Big Turner, despite his football experience, almost comes to
grief, for he had a man right under his feet; he staggers through,
however, with a plunge that sends another man to the edge of the track,
and is by Shack's side a moment later. Of course anything with a pair of
legs can run a single lap at the speed with which the best of them start
out who mean to finish in good time. The first lap showed few changes,
except that the whole lot had strung out in a long procession, first one
and then another coming up or going back, but with no very radical
changes. There were a couple of fellows with no idea of pace who
started from limit as if they had a hundred yards only before them, and
who came up close to Seever, who was in no hurry yet.
In the second lap Hartman began to draw away, and at the end of the
third passed a man or two and came up to a little bunch of nine or ten
close together. Root was among them, and made a little spurt as Fritz
went by; but the rest opened a gap like a barn door, through which the
Dutchman slipped with ease, and set out for those ahead.
"That was very pretty," said I to myself; "now we will see if Seever
gets the same chance." Fred, who had now struck his gait, and got his
heart and lungs in good working order, quickening his stride, passed a
few stragglers almost before they saw him, and came up to the same bunch
through which Hartman had gone so easily. He trailed after them a
little, and then swung wide to go by on the outside; but a stout fellow
with the crossed oars on his breast went with him, his right arm well
out, and his elbows up, taking Seever almost to the rail. The latter was
forced back again, and in the straight tried to slip through a promising
gap, but they put the bars up as he came along, and he found himself,
despite his best efforts, nicely pocketed at this early stage of the
game. There was considerable indication of disapproval from the
audience, and some hisses; but there was Seever, sure enough, "in
Coventry" and no mistake.
All this time Shack and Turner were running easily, and they now began
to slip back faster still among the tail-enders, being joined by Root on
the way. When Seever found himself blocked, he slowed a little,
according to instructions, and a second or two later the three men came
back, and led him with Shack first, Root second, and Turner just ahead.
Then, as if a trumpet had been blown, the "Heavy Brigade" swung into
position something like the letter "V," with Shack at the apex, Root a
little back and outside, and Turner in the same relative position on the
inside. There was nothing at all conspicuous about all this, and I doubt
if any one noticed it but myself. Seever now came up a little, and took
his place behind the "troop." They ran in this way for a few strides,
and then, as if the order to charge had been given, the "Heavy Brigade"
started at speed.
I held my breath a bit as they came up to the bunch which had blocked
Seever a moment before. Shack tried to swing wide, but again the stout
fellow with the crossed oars came out, and with him a couple of others.
Then Shack came in a little, chose a place where there was a small gap,
the trio "hit her up," and went through the crowd like a particularly
powerful snow-plough. The stout fellow tried to swing in, but he could
make no more impression against Shack than a stone-wall, and when he
bumped back against Root the latter worthy sent him to the rear. Turner
took care of his corner without a stagger. It was a mighty neat
performance, for no one was taken off his feet, though several had been
thrown out of their strides when the "Brigade" cut through. The audience
cheered as Seever swung by, and set out behind his body-guard at a pace
that meant mischief to some one. They had all been running easily, and
now they passed one contestant after another until they came to a second
bunch a bit more solid than the first.
Shack trailed them for a half lap; looking in vain for an opening, he
swung wide, he made a try for the inside, he stepped this way and that,
and then suddenly, as if at the touch of the spur, the "Heavies" cut
into the line in front where it was weakest. There was no opening; so
Shack selected a little fellow in the middle, and ran right over him,
taking pains to send him wide out of Seever's way. Root had little
trouble, but Turner found himself in an awful hole. I could see his
huge shoulder as he forced through, and at one time I thought he was
surely down, but he came through a little behind the rest, puffing like
a grampus. He was strong and game, however, and a moment later was in
his place again, although far from comfortable.
The audience was now on its feet, for there were but a couple of laps
left, and the real race was now to come. Half of the starters had
dropped out, half of the remainder were hopelessly trailed, and the
leaders were close together. Hartman had perhaps ten yards over Kitson,
and about the same distance back were the "Heavies," with Seever close
up. This latter "piece of rare porcelain," as Shack called him, had been
taken through without a touch and was running as if on eggs. They pulled
Kitson back fast, and caught him at the last corner. He was a tall
fellow with a closely shaven head, who was a runner, sure enough, and
used his arms almost as much as his legs. It was almost impossible for a
light man to get by him on a narrow board track.
Just what he tried to do I never discovered, for the crowd of
contestants inside the track were all huddled together and partly hid my
view. All I am sure of is that the man with the "useful elbow" suddenly
performed a parabola of surpassing splendor, and landed in a very dazed
condition between the knees of a fat man in the front row of spectators.
Kitson had no sooner been put out of danger than Root and Shack swung
wide, and Turner also stepped out of the way, falling among the crowd
inside the track pretty well run out, and Seever came through and set
out for Hartman like the "Headless Horseman."
The Dutchman ran as if the famous spectre of Sleepy Hollow was indeed
after him, but Seever was as fresh as paint and would not be denied.
Foot by foot he gained, and passing him at the last corner broke the
tape a comfortable winner by a couple of yards.
Of course he received plenty of acknowledgment for his plucky race, but
not half the applause that came to Shack, the doughty leader of the
"Heavy Brigade," who came romping in third, with a grin on his face like
the first quarter of a harvest moon.
[Illustration: A Virginia Jumper]
I remember it was on a Monday morning that I sat in my office at the
gymnasium, opening a three-days' mail. I had been out of town, and found
quite a formidable accumulation of letters on my desk.
It was early, not later than eight o'clock. The November sun was
shining, and the woodbine that framed the eastern window was blazing
almost as brightly as the fire in the grate. It was all very cheerful. I
was glad to get back again, and with an old cricket jacket around my
shoulders I set myself to clean up the arrears of work.
I always handle my mail on the principle of elimination; that is, I
first open the unsealed envelopes containing circulars, then those of
apparently little consequence, and so on down to the most interesting
and important. Of course I sometimes make mistakes, but not very often.
I distinctly remember that on that day an envelope with a black border
was saved for the very last. The postmark was illegible, and it was
addressed to me in a particularly old-fashioned and graceful hand.
When at last I broke the seal, I found its contents as follows: