THE DUAL MEET
_Bling! Blang! Blare! Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra!_
That was the Wissining Silver Cornet Band playing its famous College
Medley.
“On your mark!... Get set!...”
That was the starter at the head of the straightaway over by the tennis
courts.
_Bang!_
That was the little nickel-plated revolver held, glistening in the
sunlight, over the starter’s head.
“Come on, you Rand! Come on! Come on!”
“Go it, Broadwood! Beat him out, Cheever!”
“A-a-a-ay!”
That was――well, that was about everybody; everybody seated on the
grand stand and everybody gathered along the track. The Dual Track and
Field Meeting between Yardley Hall School and Broadwood Academy had
begun, and they were hustling off the trial heats in the hundred-yards
dash. It was a gala day at Yardley, and the Weather Man had provided
ideal conditions. Overhead a warm blue sky, underfoot a firm and
springy track, and between scarcely enough breeze to ruffle the big
blue banner hanging from the pole at the end of the field. It was
warm――too warm, perhaps, for the comfort of those in the grand stand,
but just right for the contestants on track and turf. From the grand
stand the spectators, shielding themselves from the ardent rays of the
sun behind parasols and programmes, looked down upon a smooth green
oval of turf bordered by the blue-gray ribbon of newly rolled cinders.
Beyond was the little shingled, vine-screened boat-house, and the
river, glinting with pale golden lights, and then the vividly green
expanse of Meeker’s Marsh. To the left, down the straightaway, gleamed
a white tent about which the Broadwood athletes congregated. River and
links, courts and diamonds, were deserted to-day, for all Yardley was
at the field. Important looking youths and busy-looking men, wearing
the blue ribbon badges which proclaimed them officials of the meeting,
hurried or strolled about and on the bench below the stand, a handful
of Yardley contestants sweltered under their dressing-gowns and awaited
their events. Another heat in the hundred yards was run off, and then
the pole-vaulters and shot-putters were called out, and the bench
emptied itself and from the Broadwood dressing tent hurried the Green’s
entrants.
Down near the scene of the field events a number of Yardley and
Broadwood athletes whose services would not be required until later in
the afternoon, had congregated to watch their teammates. In a Yardley
group was Gerald――Gerald very brown of face and attired in a blue and
white wrap. Beside him stood Alf, with a Field Judge’s badge hanging
from his coat lapel.
“Poor old Thompson can’t even see this,” Alf was saying. “I suppose
he’s mooning around in his room. It’s a shame.”
“Yes, it is a shame,” Gerald agreed, “but he isn’t doing any mooning.
He borrowed a pair of field glasses from some fellow and he and young
Merrow are up there on the hill somewhere.”
“Good for him,” laughed Alf. “Say, those Broadwood vaulters look pretty
good, don’t they? There goes Cowles. Oh, hard luck, Cowles! They’re
starting the high jump. I guess I’d better go over and earn my pay. How
are you feeling, Gerald? Going to win that mile?”
“Easy,” laughed Gerald. “I’m feeling fine.”
“That’s more than Bert Maury is, I guess. He looks like a drink of
water. Well, so long, Gerald.”
At the other end of the field the starter’s pistol barked, and Gerald
turned to see four white-clad youths rising and falling as they came
down the track in the first trial heat of the high hurdles. Stevenson,
Yardley’s mainstay in that event, had no trouble in getting placed, a
ripple of applause floated across from the grand stand, and the band
struck up a nimble two-step. Gerald skirted the jumpers and went over
to where four Yardley and five Broadwood fellows were putting the shot.
Tom hadn’t removed his blue sweater yet, and as Gerald approached,
he hopped across the ring and sent the shot arching away for a good
thirty-six feet.
“Say, Dyer, if you’re going to do that with your sweater on,” laughed a
Broadwood opponent, “what are you going to do when you take it off?”
Tom grinned and turned to Gerald. “What’s this I hear about Bert Maury
not running?” he asked _sotto voce_.
“I hadn’t heard anything about it,” replied Gerald. “Why isn’t he going
to?”
Tom shrugged his broad shoulders. “Search me. That’s what Stevenson
said. I don’t know where he heard it. If Maury doesn’t run, this is
going to be a mighty close thing to-day.”
“He seemed to be all right at dinner,” said Gerald. “They’ll get the
mile for sure if he doesn’t start.”
“The meet, too, I guess,” muttered Tom as he picked up his shot again
and stepped into the ring.
The trials in the high hurdles were over, and the Clerk of the Course
was calling the quarter-milers out. Gerald followed the crowd down
to where the race was to finish. As he reached a place near the tape
the pistol spoke from across the field, and seven runners dashed down
the straightaway. Of the seven, three wore Yardley colors, and four
Broadwood. At the first corner they were well strung out, with the
Yardley crack in the lead, and two Broadwood men close behind. At
the next corner the foremost runner had increased his lead slightly,
and the distance between second man and third had lengthened. Cheers
for Yardley and Broadwood arose from the grand stand, and down here
at the finish, eager partisans leaned over the edge of the cinders,
and hoarsely shouted encouragement. The foremost Broadwood man made
desperate efforts to gain the lead in the last fifty yards, but was
forced to accept second place, while behind him came two of his
teammates. Yardley cheered her victor, but the fact remained that in
the first event to be decided, Broadwood had captured three places and
six of the eleven points.
After that, with the band blaring almost incessantly, and hundreds
of voices cheering and imploring, events went with a rush. The
hundred-yards dash brought the grand stand to its feet as the four
boys who had won their way to the final heat, sprinted down the lanes.
It was an easy victory for Rand in 10⅖ seconds, with Bufford second,
Chase third, and the single Broadwood runner, fourth. But in the high
hurdles, Broadwood redeemed herself, winning 8 points to Yardley’s 3.
In the 220-yards dash, Rand again took a first, and Bufford managed to
scrape by in third place. Rand equalled the Dual record, 24⅗, and got
plenty of applause for it. The trials for the 220-yards hurdles were
begun, and from the announcer came the results of the high jump and the
shot-put. In the former Yardley had surprised her adherents by gaining
6 points to her rival’s 5, while in the shot event she had disappointed
them by reversing the score. Tom had had no difficulty in getting first
with a put of 40 feet 11½ inches, but the other Yardley contestants had
failed signally and Broadwood had taken the remaining six points.
“The score at present,” announced the stentorian-voiced gentleman with
the megaphone, “is Yardley 33 points, Broadwood 33 points!”
“Gee,” exclaimed Dan to Durfee, “that’s some close!”
“Yes, and the remaining events are the ones we’re supposed to have
mighty little show in,” answered the baseball captain anxiously. “This
isn’t going to be any cinch like last year, is it?”
“Looks to me like a good drubbing,” answered Dan. “What’s next?”
“It ought to be the half-mile,” replied Durfee, consulting his
programme. “Yes, here they come now. We’re supposed to get about three
points in this, I believe.”
“Phew! And Broadwood has the low hurdles cinched too!”
“How has she?” Durfee protested. “We’ve each qualified two men.”
“That’s so. If Stevenson can get first――――”
“Here they go for the eight-eighty,” interrupted the other. “Say,
there’s a bunch of them, eh? Who’s the tall guy from Broadwood?”
“I don’t know. Fleming, probably; he’s their crack.”
They watched anxiously while the fourteen youths sped away from their
marks and jostled into their places at the turn. All the way to the
beginning of the home-stretch, the runners remained well grouped. Then
the tall Fleming settled down to business, and as he crossed the line
for the start of the last lap, sprang into the lead and swept around
the corner yards ahead. It was a grand race after that, with Fleming
and two teammates running close together, and three Yardley men grouped
some ten yards behind. After them the field strung away for two hundred
yards.
“Gee, that looks like fast running,” muttered Dan.
“You’d better believe it!” agreed Durfee, excitedly. “Come on, Yardley!
Close up on ’em!”
Of course the Yardley runners never heard Durfee’s request, but two of
them at that moment began to sprint. One Broadwood man fell back, and
for the last two hundred yards the four leaders fought desperately.
Fleming was never headed, but Warren, of Yardley, nosed out the next
Broadwood fellow for second place, and a third wearer of the blue added
another point by finishing a bad fourth. The time was 2:5⅗, and it
broke the Dual record, and Broadwood lifted her fleet-footed Fleming on
high, and bore him off to the tent in triumph.
“Result of the Running Broad Jump,” bawled the announcer. “Won by
Hughes, Broadwood; distance, 19 feet, 10½ inches. Second: Roeder,
Yardley; 19 feet, 7 inches. Third: Whittier, Yardley; 18 feet, 11
inches. Fourth: Hagan, Yardley; 18 feet, 4 inches.”
Yardley cheered vociferously.
“Result of the Pole Vault,” went on the announcer. “Won by Perkins,
Broadwood――――”
There was a groan from the grand stand.
“――――Height, 11 feet. Second: Myers, Yardley; 10 feet, 11 inches.
Third: Sawyer, Broadwood; 10 feet, 6 inches. Fourth: Beaton, Broadwood;
10 feet, 1 inch.”
That was disappointing, but there was no time to discuss it, for, far
up the track the hurdlers were crouching on their mark. A tiny puff of
smoke, followed by the sharp _bang_ of the pistol, and the four figures
were racing down. A groan went up from the Yardley sympathizers as
Stevenson, leading at the second hurdle, stumbled. But he recovered
nicely, scraped over the next barrier and almost regained his loss.
Almost, but not quite, for at the tape the Broadwood crack beat him out
by a scant foot. Yardley captured third place, and fourth went to her
rival. Again the Green had nosed out a win.
“Say,” complained little Durfee, chewing hard at the end of his
lead pencil, “this is too blamed close for fun. Let’s figure up the
standing, Dan.”
But the announcer saved them the trouble.
“The score now stands,” he trumpeted: “Broadwood, 60 points, Yardley,
50 points.”
“We’re dished!” sighed Dan.
“No, we’re not; not yet. We’ll get 8 in the hammer, likely, and more
than half the points in the mile run. That will make it――let me see――64
for us and――gosh!”
“Yes, 68 for Broadwood,” supplied Dan, dryly. “What we’ve got to do is
to get sixteen points somewhere. And I guess we can’t do it.”
“I’m afraid not,” Durfee agreed, soberly, studying his figures. “I
wonder if the hammer throw is over. Oh, Mr. Payson!”
The baseball coach, one of the Time-Keepers, hurrying by, heard the
hail and waved his hand to the two boys in the stand.
“Have you heard from the hammer throw yet, sir?” called Durfee. Mr.
Payson stopped, made a trumpet of his hands, and answered:
“It isn’t over yet, but we get 9 points sure!”
“Hooray!” cried Dan, while others who had heard sent up a shout of
approval.
“That gives us 59,” said Durfee, excitedly; “59 to their 60! It all
depends on the mile, Dan. If we can get first and third places――――”
“If we can get first and second, you mean. What’s the good of a tie
score? Maury can get first, I suppose, but have we any one who can
pinch second? Can Goodyear do it?”
“He’s got to! My word, we can’t lose the meet now! Where’s Andy, I
wonder. Some one ought to tell him――――”
“All out for the mile!” called the Clerk of the Course.