THE MEET
The fact that the track meet between the two lower classes had been
placed at an earlier date than that for which it had first been
announced was a serious disappointment to Will Phelps. His success in
the school athletics had made him quietly hopeful, if not confident,
that he might be able to win some laurels in college, and he also was
aware that the gold medal he wore upon his fob had made his own
classmates expect great things from him. And the changed date now
prevented him from doing any training and he must enter the contest
without any preparation.
Reports had come to him that Mott and Ogden, the two fleetest-footed
sophomores, had already been working hard, and rumors were also current
that he himself was to be kidnapped and prevented from entering the
games. Will had given but slight heed to any of these reports, but he
had in his own mind decided that he would begin training at once for the
contest, for if he should by any chance win then he would be the first
member of his own class to gain the coveted privilege of wearing his
class numerals upon his cap and sweater. And, not unnaturally, Will was
eager to secure the honor.
As he thought over Mott's words he was half inclined to believe that the
sophomore himself had been the cause of the unexpected change in the
date of holding the games, and his feeling of anger and desire to win
both became keener. There was no time, however, afforded in which he
might make preparations for the meet, and he must simply do his best
under existing circumstances. There was to be no burlesque or "horse
play" in this contest, and the entire college would be on hand and
interested to note the promise of the entering class in a department of
college life that appealed strongly to all the students. Even his new
determination to push his work in his Greek harder than ever he had done
and his feeling of homesickness did not in the day that intervened
between the present and the day of the games prevent his interest and
excitement from increasing during the passing hours.
Saturday afternoon finally arrived, clear and cool, an ideal day for the
contest. When Will stepped forth from the dressing-room, clad in his
light running suit and with his bath robe wrapped around him, as he
glanced over the track he could see that a crowd was already assembled.
The sophomores were seated in a body in one portion of the "bleachers,"
and their noisy shouts or loud class cries rose steadily on the autumn
air. Opposite was the freshman class, but its members were still too
unfamiliar with their surroundings and with one another to enable them
to join in anything like the unison of their rivals. In the grand stand
were numbers of the members of the families of the faculty and the
townspeople and visitors, and altogether the scene was one that strongly
stirred Will and his room-mate, Foster Bennett, who also was to compete
in the games.
Suddenly a loud, derisive shout arose from the sophomores, and Will
glanced quickly up to discover its cause. In a moment the cause was
seen, when Peter John Schenck came running across the field toward the
place where Will and Foster were standing beside a few of their
classmates, who were also waiting for the game to begin.
The sight of Peter John was one that caused even Will and Foster to
smile, for their classmate was dressed as if he too was about to become
a contestant, and this was something neither of them had expected. It
was Peter John's garb, however, which had so greatly delighted the
beholders, for it was unlike anything to be seen upon the
field--"fearfully and wonderfully made," as Mott, who had joined them
for a moment, had expressed it. Evidently it was the result of Peter
John's own handiwork. His running trousers came to a place about halfway
between his knees and ankles before they stopped, and were fashioned of
coarse bagging or material very similar to it. He wore no running shoes,
but a pair of gray woolen socks, plainly "hand made," provided a
substitute. His "running shirt" was a calico blouse which had at one
time doubtless served him as a garment in which he had done the daily
chores upon his father's farm, but, as if to make matters still worse, a
broad band of ribbon, the colors of the class, was diagonally fastened
to his blouse in front, and Peter John's fierce shock of bright red
hair, uncut since he had entered Winthrop, served to set off the entire
picture he presented.
"Well, I guess we'll do 'em to-day, Will," exclaimed Peter John as he
approached the group of which his friend was a member.
"I guess we will," remarked Mott soberly.
"I'm going to do my prettiest," continued Peter John.
"If you let anybody once get ahead of you, Schenck," said Mott, "you'll
never catch him. If he sees you after him he'll run for his life."
"He'll have to!"
"What are you entered for?" inquired Mott, glancing at his program as he
spoke.
"The half-mile run."
"Ever do it before?"
"Once or twice."
"What time did you make?"
"I don't just recollect."
"Never mind. You'll make a new record to-day."
"That's what I want to do," replied Peter John, sublimely unconscious
that he was being made sport of by the sophomore.
The conversation was interrupted by the call, "All out for the
hundred-yard dash!" and, as Will was to run in the first heat, he drew
off his bath robe and tossing it to Foster, turned at once for the
starting-place. He had already been indulging in a few trials of
starting, but his feeling of confidence was by no means strong as he
glanced at those who were to be his competitors. There were four runners
in his heat, and one of them was Ogden, the sophomore of whose
reputation as a "sprinter" Will already was aware. The other two were
freshmen and therefore unknown quantities, but Will's chief interest was
in Ogden. He could see the knots of muscles in his arms and back and
legs, and his own feeling of confidence was in nowise strengthened by
the sight. Certainly Ogden was a muscular fellow, and a competitor as
dangerous as he was striking in his appearance.
The call, "On your marks," was given, and Will, with the other three,
advanced and took his place on the line. Every nerve in his body seemed
to be tingling with excitement and his heart was beating furiously.
"Get set!" called the starter, and then in a moment there followed the
sharp report of the pistol and the runners were speeding down the
course. Will felt that he had secured a good start, and but a few yards
had been covered when he realized that he and Ogden were running almost
side by side and had left the other two contestants behind them. Nor
were their relative positions changed as they sped on down the track
except that the distance between Will and Ogden and the two freshmen
behind them was steadily increased. Will was dimly aware as he drew near
the line that the entire sophomore body had risen and was noisily
calling to their classmate to increase his speed. There was silence from
the seats occupied by the freshman class, but Will was hardly mindful of
the lack of support. Glancing neither to the right nor the left, he
could almost instinctively feel that Ogden was a few inches in advance
of him and all his efforts were centered upon cutting down the
intervening distance.
As the contestants came within the last ten yards of the course, Will
gathered himself together for one final burst of speed. His feet seemed
scarcely to touch the ground as he darted forward. But Ogden was not to
be outdone, for he too increased the pace at which he was running, and
when they touched the line that was stretched across the course, the
sophomore was still ahead by a few inches and had come in first in the
heat, while Will was second.
Foster was standing near to catch his room-mate, and as he wrapped the
bath robe around him, he said: "It's all right, Will; you're in the
finals."
"First two taken?" gasped Will.
"Yes."
"Hold on. Let's hear the time," said Will, stopping abruptly as the
announcer advanced.
"Hundred-yards dash, first heat," called the senior, "Won by number ten.
Second, number fifteen. Time, ten and two-fifths seconds."
"That's good for the heat, Will," said Foster warmly.
"I'm not in training," said Will despondently.
"The others aren't either, or at least not much. You had Ogden nearly
winded, and when it comes to the finals you'll do him up," said Foster
encouragingly.
Will did not reply, for the call for the second heat was now made and he
was intensely interested in watching Mott's performance, for his
reputation in the college was even greater than Ogden's. And if he
himself had been beaten by Ogden, what chance would he have against
Mott? The question was not reassuring, but as the five men in the second
heat could now be seen taking their positions on the line, it was for
the moment ignored, as intensely interested he turned to watch the race
that was about to be run.
In a moment the pistol was fired and the five contestants came speeding
down the course. It was soon seen that Mott was leading, but only by a
little, though he did not appear to be exerting himself strongly.
"Easy, dead easy!" Will heard a sophomore near him remark, and as he
watched Mott's easy stride he heartily concurred in the opinion.
The runners were nearing the line now, and as Mott drew near he almost
stopped for a moment and glanced smilingly behind him at his
contestants. Instantly his nearest competitor darted forward and before
the sophomore could recover himself he had touched the string and won
the heat, with Mott a close second. Mott, however, appeared to be in
nowise disconcerted and laughingly received the bantering words of his
classmates. He laughed again when the time was announced as ten and
four-fifths seconds, and approaching the place where Will and Foster
were standing, said:
"You did well, freshman. Made better time than I did."
"I had to, if I kept anywhere near Ogden."
The other events of the meet were now being run off, and as Peter John
Schenck took his place on the line for the half-mile run the uproar
became almost tumultuous, and when the freshman apparently took it all
in his most serious manner and bowed gravely to the sophomores,
evidently appropriating to himself all the noisy demonstrations of
delight, the shouts and laughter redoubled.
In a moment, however, the runners were off and Peter John quickly
advanced to the first place, followed by a line of five that were well
bunched together. There were many derisive calls and cries and Peter
John's work seemed to be taken as a joke by all the spectators, who were
loud in their declarations that he was "making a mistake" and would
"never be able to maintain his stride." Around the course sped the
runners until at last they were on the home stretch and still Peter John
was in advance, his arms working like the fans of a Dutch windmill and
his awkward movements becoming more awkward as the strain of the final
part of the race came upon him. Still he was in the lead, however, and
the derisive cries were giving place to shouts of approval and
encouragement from his own classmates.
The increasing excitement seemed to provide an additional spur to the
awkward freshman, for his speed suddenly increased and he darted across
the line far in advance of his rivals who were bunched behind him.
Laughter was mingled with the applause that greeted him, and when the
captain of the college track team advanced and extended his hand in
congratulation, the genuineness of the applause that followed was
unquestioned.
Peter John, highly elated by his success, approached Will and said
glibly: "There, Will, I rather guess that'll add five points to our
score."
"I rather guess it will," laughed his classmate cordially. He was as
greatly surprised as any one that day, but he was too generous to
begrudge any praise to Peter John.
"Now see that you do as well," said Peter John, as the call for the
finals in the hundred-yard dash was made.
Will made no response as he advanced to take his place. Foster had
already won the running broad jump and was in a fair way to win the
shot-put as well. Peter John had been successful too, and to Will it
seemed that he must win his race or his disappointment would be almost
too bitter to bear.
At the report of the pistol the contestants darted from the line and
came speeding down the track toward the finish, which was near the place
where the spectators were assembled. Vigorously, lusty, the perfection
physically of young manhood, the four runners sped on with the swiftness
of the wind, but when they touched the tape it was evident that Mott was
first by a small margin and that Ogden was second, being an almost
imperceptible distance in advance of Will Phelps, who had finished third
in the race.