FOR THE TROPHY OF THE FLEET.
As Ned had prophesied, the next day was bright and clear. There was
just enough of the coolness of early summer to give a crisp tang to
the air. It stirred the blood like martial music. It was a day which
challenged every athlete in the squadron to do his best. That is, so
far as external conditions were concerned.
The ground selected for the trying out of the championship of the
squadron was a flat field, some five acres in extent, not far from the
shore. It stood on slightly rising ground. Trees, fresh and green,
stood in a thick mass on one side. Seaward the ground sloped gently,
and beyond could be seen the grim sea-fighters, swinging at anchor;
from some of the smoke-stacks vapor curled lazily. The basket-like
fighting masts resembled the work of some geometrically inclined
spider.
Cheering and laughing, the contingents from the various ships were
landed after dinner. In their midst, guarding them jealously, as
bees would their queen, each ship's company surrounded their group
of athletes. And a fine showing they made when they assembled in
the dressing-rooms under the grandstand. This structure was already
occupied by the officers of the division, headed by Rear Admiral
Cochran, a white-haired veteran of the seven seas. A sprinkling of
ladies in bright costumes lent a dash of color to the scene.
The course had been laid out, and the officers who had constituted
themselves a committee in charge of the sports were already busy about
it, when the _Manhattan's_ boats landed their laughing, singing,
cheering blue-jackets. Among them were Ned and Herc. Neither of them
had yet changed to their running togs. Merritt and Chance had, however,
but they both wore long raincoats, which prevented Ned from sizing
them up, as he was anxious to do.
Both the Dreadnought Boys were quiet and self-contained as usual.
But Merritt and Chance were talking loudly and flinging remarks
right and left. Atwell, Turner, Simpkins, Jessup and a dozen other
_Manhattan_ entries in various events formed the remainder of the
athletic contingent from the big dreadnought. As they entered the
dressing-rooms--or rather the big space under the grandstand--a babel
of cries of welcome and jocular defiance surged about the Manhattanites.
"Here come the champions of the squadron," shouted some one.
"Say, Jack, wait till they are champions before you start giving the
title to them," hailed another voice. It was that of Chalmers of the
_Louisiana_. He wore dark-green running trunks with a white shirt.
Across his chest was a red, white and blue sash, on which was blazoned
the name of his ship. Several of the other runners and athletes
affected this touch of dandyism. Ned and Herc, however, wore plain
running suits: trunks and sleeveless shirts and good track shoes.
Chalmers lost no time in seeking out Merritt. The two conversed in a
corner in low tones. After a time, Ned and Herc, too, succeeded in
getting away from a crowd of their shipmates and found time to pass a
word or two.
Merritt had cast off his long coat to adjust his trunks. Ned found his
eyes riveted on the fellow. If physique were any criterion, Merritt
should have been a fine runner.
Clean-cut as a race-horse, his skin was smooth and of good color, with
lithe muscles playing under it. He was the beau ideal in build of a
speed machine. Chance, on the other hand, was heavier-set, but he
showed up well in that assemblage of athletically built men and youths.
Both Ned and Herc agreed that the two whom they instinctively regarded
as enemies were by no means to be rated lightly.
But a sharp bugle call cut short further observation. The games were
beginning. The hundred-yard dash was third on the program, and Ned did
not emerge till just before the starting time. The wind was sharp, and
he did not want to contract his muscles by letting the cold air blow on
his limbs. Herc, in a heavy navy coat, went to the starting line with
him. He stood by his chum, giving him some last words of advice. Ned
appeared to listen, but his thoughts were actually elsewhere. He had
already made up his mind to his course of action. He was going to run a
waiting race, depending on a sharp spurt to win.
In a quick glance over the six entrants, he saw that Chalmers and
Merritt were the only ones he had cause to fear. He noticed them
whispering together, and resolved to keep a sharp lookout on their
actions.
The air was filled with shouts and suggestions and greetings from
blue-jackets, who were encouraging the men from their own ship. Every
man in the squadron who could be spared was there. They made a big
throng, lining the track on the side away from the grandstand.
"Hey, there, Springer! Do your prettiest for the _Merrimac_."
"Oh, you Polthew! Don't forget the _Massachusetts_!"
"Say, Polly, look out for that _Manhattan_ bunch."
"Hi, Chalmers, you're the man. You're carrying the _Luzzy's_ money."
"That's right, and don't you forget it."
"And you, Strong! My month's pay's on you."
"You'll lose, then; Merritt's the man."
"What's the matter with Carter? Guess you'll know there's a _Kansas_ in
the fleet."
"Stand back, please! Stand back!" cried those in charge of the course.
The line-up was quickly arranged. The starters crouched ready to dart
off. Carter made a false start, and the excitement waxed furious.
"Ready?"
Lieutenant Steedforth, of the _Louisiana_, the starter, put the
question.
Like greyhounds preparing to leave the leash, the contestants flexed
their muscles.
The starter lifted the pistol. A puff of smoke and sharp report
followed.
Merritt, Chalmers and Polthew got off at the same instant. They made
a showy start, and the grandstand as well as the field buzzed with
enthusiasm.
Springer, of the _Merrimac_, and Carter, of the _Kansas_, came next.
Strong came last, and was almost unnoticed in the frenzy of excitement.
The pace was terrific. In the first twenty-five yards Polthew and
Carter dropped behind, hopelessly out of it. Far in front, Merritt,
Chalmers and Springer were fighting it grimly out. Springer hung like
death on the heels of the two leaders.
Ned had crept up, and kept his pace steadily. Suddenly Springer
spurted. This carried him past Chalmers and Merritt, who were about
even. But the effort had been made too soon. In a second's time he
dropped back again.
The Dreadnought Boy knew that the two tricksters in front were going
to concentrate on stopping him if he crept up too soon. So he crawled
up till he felt it would be foolish to delay longer. Then, letting out
all his reserve power, Ned spurted. His burst of speed was easy and
genuine. It was not forced.
In a flash he was abreast of Chalmers before the latter could "pocket"
him according to prearranged plans. Merritt, as he saw this, exerted
every ounce of strength in his wiry body.
The jackies went wild. It was anybody's race, for now Chalmers had
recovered from his surprise. Spurting, he caught up with the leaders.
Spurt followed spurt. The air vibrated with cheers, yells, whoops and
every kind of noisy demonstration.
Above it all, there suddenly rang out from the throats of the
_Manhattan's_ crew, one ear-splitting cry of triumph.
In the midst of it, carried on its wings as it were, Ned suddenly
dashed ahead of his competitors and staggered across the tape into the
arms of his shipmates. Chalmers was second and Merritt a bad third.
Tobacco had found the weak spot in his heart. He was almost exhausted
as he reeled across the line.