FOR YARDLEY!
In the west, beyond Meeker’s Marsh, the sun was settling, big and
glowing, toward the tops of the distant hills. The surface of the river
held hues of copper and purple, and the shadows were lengthening. The
pole-vaulters and the jumpers had trailed away, and the standards were
being taken down. Somewhere out of sight behind the grand stand, the
final field event, the hammer throw, was being decided. In front of the
stand, along the edge of the track, competitors and officials whose
duties were over, had congregated for the last and deciding race. In
the stand every one was on his feet, and cheers for Yardley and for
Broadwood were ringing forth.
“Milers, this way!” cried the Clerk.
A little way up the track Andy Ryan was standing with Captain Maury,
Goodyear, Norcross, and Gerald about him. The trainer’s face was as
expressionless as ever, but there was a hard glint in his little green
eyes, and he chewed a grass-blade while he talked.
“It’s pretty close, boys,” he was saying, quietly, “and I guess the
meet hinges on you. Now here’s your plan. Let Broadwood go ahead at the
start, but keep close up. Let her make the pace for the first lap. She
may make it pretty hot, for I guess she’s hoping to wear you out in
the first three-quarters and then send Stewart in to win on a sprint.
But do you keep close, do you see? Then when the second lap begins,
Pennimore, I want you to take the lead and keep it to the end of the
third lap――and after that, if you can. You haven’t the speed to win the
race, but you’ve got endurance, my boy. Run yourself out in the three
laps. After that, if you can get a place, well and good. When the last
lap begins, Cap, move up and get where you can pass Stewart over there
on the back-stretch. After that it’s a case of hitting it up. Save
yourself all you can for the last lap. Norcross, you ought to get a
third or fourth if you use your head. Goodyear, you look after Stewart
for the three laps; keep him back all you can. Next to Stewart, I guess
Webster is their best man. Keep an eye on him, and try to beat him out.
Understand, boys?”
They nodded. Only Gerald questioned.
“You mean for me to start in at the second lap, Andy, and run as hard
as I can?”
“Run as hard as you can to last the three laps, my boy. They want a
fast race, and we’ll give it to them. Keep your heads, all of you, and
don’t lose your form. We’ll land the race if you do your best. Go ahead
now.”
“Milers, this way! Won’t you hurry, please?” implored the Clerk.
“Maury? Next the pole, please. Goodyear? Step in there. Webster?
Webster! Is Webster―― Oh, all right. Next to that man. High? Stewart?
Dunn? Norcross? Pennimore? Pennimore, you start on the second line.
You, too, Norcross. Now, boys, remember there’s to be no jostling. Look
out for your arms at the corners. Be sure you’re two strides ahead
before crossing in front of a competitor. Careful about your start;
you’ll be penalized if you beat the pistol. All right.”
“_Yardley! Yardley! Yardley!_” thundered the stand. The runners threw
aside their wraps and limbered up, running a few steps back and forth
along the track. Gerald was excited, but not nervous. He looked
curiously at Stewart, the Broadwood crack, and compared him with Maury.
Stewart was big and rangy and confident looking. Maury, smaller,
lither, looked as though his nerves were fairly on edge. His face was
pale and he darted anxious glances at his opponents as he came back to
his place in the line.
“On your marks!” called the starter in businesslike voice.
The runners toed the scratch and leaned forward as the command to “Get
set” reached them. Then came the pistol and the eight boys leaped
forward. There was a little scurrying at first for positions, but
at the first corner they had settled down into the unhurried pace
that makes the first part of a mile race look unimpressive. High, of
Broadwood, ran ahead, with Webster stepping in his tracks. Then came
Goodyear, Stewart, Dunn, Norcross, Maury and Gerald in order. The stand
quieted down, and the band struck up. At the second corner High hit up
his pace and down the backstretch he drew the line after him at a good
speed. At the third corner Webster ran around and took the lead. At the
end of the lap they were running in that order, save that Gerald had
passed Maury.
“Stick to them, Yardley!” called the stand as they went by. “Good work,
Maury! Go it, Goodyear!”
Then Gerald dug his spikes and slipped into the lead just before the
turn, gaining a good four yards on Webster. Dunn challenged and closed
in behind Gerald, but Stewart kept his place, running easily.
Gerald’s instructions, to kill himself in three laps and leave the race
to Maury and Goodyear, had been somewhat of a surprise to him, and he
would have much preferred staying in the contest to the end. But he had
no thought of disobeying Andy’s command, and so at the second corner
he let out another peg and made a hot pace along the stretch, so hot
that the field began to trail out then and there. High fell back to the
rear, and between Stewart and Norcross the distance lengthened. Maury
was still well back as Gerald took a brief glimpse over his shoulder at
the next turn. At the finish of the second lap, with the race half run,
Gerald and Dunn were running close together, with Goodyear and Stewart
some six yards back and an open space of about thirty feet between them
and the next group. High had killed himself in the first lap, and was
already out of the running, trailing along far behind.
“That’s a warm pace Gerald is making,” said Dan as the runners swept
by. “I guess this lap will settle him.”
“Yes, but look at Bert Maury,” said Durfee. “He looks all-in, or I’ll
eat my hat. He’s trying to pass that Broadwood fellow and can’t do it.
What sort of a game is this, anyway? Why isn’t he up there in front?
He’ll never cut that distance down.”
“Looks as though Goodyear would have to win this if we’re going to get
it,” muttered Dan, anxiously. “He’s running a dandy race, isn’t he? See
him watch Stewart. Whoa there! He almost got past. I guess Mr. Stewart
is getting anxious.”
The Broadwood runner had tried to crowd past Goodyear at the second
turn, but that youth had been watching, and as they settled into the
stretch, the order remained unchanged. Half way along, Dunn began to
drop behind, and at the third corner it was Gerald, Goodyear, and
Stewart well bunched, with Norcross and Webster fighting for honors
twenty yards back, Dunn steadily losing ground, and Maury, evidently
in some distress, a good forty yards behind the leaders. Into the
home-stretch they came, Gerald still apparently running strong. Near
the finish mark he increased his pace, and left several yards between
him and Goodyear. At the same moment Stewart found his chance, and
crossed into second place. The gong clanged, announcing the beginning
of the last lap, and the shouting from the stand and from the audience
along the edge of the field, was deafening.
“Good work, Pennimore! Keep it up!”
“Go it, Stewart! Go it, Broadwood!”
“Maury! Maury! Come on, Maury! Close up there, Maury!”
“Eat ’em up, Goodyear! Come on, Norcross!”
“Yardley! Yardley! Yardley!”
“Broadwood! Broadwood! Broadwood!”
And through it all the band played doggedly on.
Goodyear had sprung after Stewart, and was hanging to him closely at
the first turn. Between Gerald and Stewart lay some four or five yards
of cinders. Gerald had been told to keep the lead as long as he could,
and he was doing it. As a matter of fact, he still felt strong and was
breathing better than during the first or second laps. He looked around
on the next turn, and a puzzled frown came into his forehead. Why was
Maury away back there? He could never win in the wide world unless he
performed a miracle of sprinting! Well, orders were orders. He would
keep the lead while he could, and then the others must do their best.
He was still running strong and prettily at the beginning of the
backstretch, still holding his four-yard lead against Stewart. Webster
had headed Norcross, while far behind came Maury, fast losing form and
evidently holding on by sheer pluck. Maury was run out!
That was a pretty race, that final lap. Half-way down the stretch
Goodyear slipped past Stewart and the Yardley shouts arose wild,
incoherent, and triumphant. Webster was making the prettiest sort of a
sprint, leaving Norcross at every stride and closing up the distance
between him and Stewart, now third in the race. But Stewart was not
dead yet; far from it. He was hot after Goodyear and Gerald, and at the
turn the three were almost touching elbows. Gerald heard Goodyear’s
panting breath beside him, and before he knew what was happening, his
teammate had crossed in front of him, and on his heels came Stewart.
Around the curve they went, all nearly spent now, but running doggedly;
and twenty yards back came Webster. Scattered far back were Norcross,
Maury, and Dunn. High had given up at the end of the third lap, and
subsided on the turf.
It was at the last corner that the idea of winning suddenly came to
Gerald. So far he had thought of himself only as pacemaker. Now he
wondered why he hadn’t as good a right to the race as Goodyear, if he
could take it! Sprinting wasn’t Gerald’s strong suit, but endurance
was, and he believed that he could pass Goodyear if he tried. As
they straightened out into the homestretch, Stewart, making a gallant
effort, drew even with Gerald. But it was for an instant only, a matter
of two strides. For then, calling on all that was left in him, Gerald
drew ahead, left the pole, and ran even with Goodyear. Goodyear shot a
startled glance at him and threw back his head. Down the stretch they
came, the finish drawing closer at every stride, and the air filled
with the wild cheers of Yardley. For Stewart had shot his bolt and was
dropping back, and whether Goodyear or Gerald finished first, Yardley
was certain of eight points, the meet and the Dual Cup!
Twenty yards from the line Gerald knew that the race was his. He
was already a stride ahead. Goodyear’s agonized sobs were already
acknowledging defeat. Gerald’s heart swelled with triumph, but in the
next instant, the thought came to him that this was Goodyear’s last
race at Yardley, that for four years he had been striving for the
triumph, which Gerald was about to snatch from his grasp!
And then the watchers saw a strange thing happen. Gerald deliberately
turned his head, saw that Stewart was no longer dangerous, and faltered
in his pace for an instant. Goodyear forged ahead with a final effort,
staggered across the line, and reeled into outstretched arms. Gerald, a
yard behind, finished erect, and smiling, thrust aside the eager hands
that would have supported him and picked up his wrap.
But he wasn’t to escape so easily. The band was already forming in the
oval. The laggards were finishing to the imperious cries of “_Track!
Track there!_” Yardley pæans filled the air. Unheard, the announcer was
informing the jostling throng that Yardley had won, 67 points to 65.
And then Gerald, striving to escape to the gymnasium, but hemmed in
by the crowd, was lifted high in air and, with Goodyear, still white
and weak, swaying dizzily beside him, was borne at the head of the
procession off the field and up the path. Ahead went the band playing
“Old Yardley.” Once Gerald and Goodyear were able to shake hands, but
the rest of the time they had all they could do to keep their seats on
the shoulders of their excited bearers. As they neared the gymnasium,
Dan, breaking through the crowd, got within speaking distance of Gerald.
“Bully for you, chum!” he cried. “Have you heard your time?” Gerald
smiled and shook his head.
“Five minutes, one and three-fifths! A fifth behind Goodyear! It’s the
Dual record by over two minutes!”
At the gymnasium steps the runners were released and hurried for the
door. Goodyear got through, but a hand stopped Gerald on the threshold.
He looked up to find Mr. Collins beside him.
“Congratulations, Pennimore,” he said. “Here’s something for you.
You’ve earned a new one to-day, but you may like to have this, too.”
Mr. Collins thrust something into his hand. Then the big oak door
closed behind him. Outside, Chambers was leading the cheering. Gerald
paused in the dim light of the hall, and opened his palm. In it lay
crumpled a little white flannel Y.
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to
follow the text that they illustrate.
――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
――The Author’s em-dash style has been retained.