WAGNER'S ADVICE
The applause that greeted the winners was sounding but dimly and like
some far-away shout in Will Phelps' ears when he staggered into the
outstretched arms of Hawley, who was waiting to receive his classmate.
Mortification, chagrin, disappointment were all mingled in his feelings,
and it was all intensified by the fact that both Foster and Peter John
had won their "numerals" and were now marked men in the class. Not that
he begrudged either the honors he had won, but his own reputation as a
sprinter had preceded his coming to Winthrop, and Will knew that great
things had been expected of him.
"It was a great race, Phelps," said Hawley, "and you've added another
point to our score."
Will could understand the attempt at consolation which his huge
classmate was making, but it only served to increase the bitterness of
his own defeat. He smiled, but made no response. He could see Peter John
strutting about and receiving the half-bantering congratulations of the
students, and his heart became still heavier.
"Never mind, Phelps, you didn't have any chance to train," said Hawley.
"Mott and Ogden have been down on the track every evening for the past
three weeks."
"They have?" demanded Will, a ray of light appearing for the moment.
"Sure. And besides all that they got the date of the 'meet' changed
too."
"They beat me," said Will simply.
"Everybody expected them to. They all know you're a good runner, Phelps,
but they say a freshman never wins. Such a thing hasn't been known for
years. You see, a freshman is all new to it here, and I don't care how
good he is, he can't do himself justice. You ought to hear what Wagner,
the captain of the college track team, had to say about you."
"What did he say?" inquired Will eagerly.
"He said you had it in you to make one of the best runners in college,
and he's going to keep an eye on you for the team too."
"Did he say that?"
"That's what he did."
"The two-twenty hasn't been run yet. I believe I'll go in for that."
"That's the way to talk."
"Let me see when it comes," said Will, turning to his program as he
spoke.
"Fifteen minutes yet," said Hawley. "Come into the dressing room,
Phelps, and I'll give you a good rubbing down."
Will at once accompanied his friend to the dressing room, and when the
call for the two hundred and twenty yards' dash was made, he took his
place on the line with the other competitors. There were only four, the
same four that had run in the final heat of the hundred yards, the
defeated contestants all having dropped out save one.
When the pistol was fired and the racers had started, Will was at once
aware that again the victory was not to be his. The lack of training
and practice, and perhaps also the depression which his previous defeat
had produced in his mind contributed to his failure; but whatever the
cause, though he exerted himself to the utmost, he found that he was
unable to overtake either Mott or Ogden, who steadily held their places
before him. It was true when the race was finished that he was less than
a yard behind Mott, who was himself only about a foot in the rear of the
fleet-footed Ogden, and that the fourth runner was so far behind Will
that he was receiving the hootings and jibes of the sophomores, but
still the very best that Phelps was able to do was to cross the line as
third. It was true that again he had won a point for the honor of his
class, but it was first place he had longed to gain, and his
disappointment was correspondingly keen.
It was Hawley who again received him in his arms, and once more the
young giant endeavored to console his defeated classmate, for as such
Will looked upon himself, in spite of the fact that he had come in
third, and therefore had scored a point in each race. But as Hawley
perceived that his friend was in no mood to listen, he wisely refrained
from speaking, and both stood near the track watching the contestants in
the various events that were not yet run off. Too proud to acknowledge
his disappointment in his defeat by departing from the field, and yet
too sore in his mind to arouse much enthusiasm, he waited till the games
were ended and it was known that the sophomores had won by a score of
sixty-four and a half to forty-eight and a half. Then he quietly sought
the dressing room, and as soon as he had donned his garments went at
once to his own room.
It was a relief to find that not even Foster was there, and as he seated
himself in his easy-chair and gazed out at the brilliantly clad hills
with the purple haze that rested over them all, for a time a feeling of
utter and complete depression swept over him. Was this the fulfillment
of the dreams he had cherished of the happiness of his college life?
Already warned by Splinter that his work in Greek was so poor that he
was in danger of being dropped from the class, the keen disappointment
of his father apparent though his words had been few, the grief in his
home and the peril to himself were all now visible to the heart-sick
young freshman. And now to lose in the two track events had added a
weight that to Will seemed to be almost crushing. He had pictured to
himself how he would lightly turn away his poor work in the classroom by
explaining that he could not hope to win in everything, and that
athletics had always been his strong point anyway. But now even that was
taken away and his failure was almost equally apparent in both.
He could see Peter John coming up the walk, receiving the
congratulations of the classmates he met and giving his "pump-handle"
handshake to those who were willing to receive it. It was maddening and
almost more than Will thought he could bear. It was a mistake that he
had ever come to college anyway, he bitterly assured himself. He was not
well prepared in spite of the fact that he had worked hard for a part of
his final year in the preparatory school. Greek? He detested the
subject. Even his father came in for a share of blame, for if he had
not insisted upon his taking it Will never would have entered Splinter's
room. He might have taken German under "Dutchy," or English under
Professor Jones, as many of his classmates were doing, and every one
declared that the work there was a "snap."
It was not long before Will Phelps was in a state of mind wherein he was
convinced that he was being badly treated and had more to contend
against than any other man in his class. His naturally impulsive
disposition seldom found any middle ground on which he was permitted to
stand. His father had one time laughingly declared that the comparative
degree had been entirely left out of Will's make-up and that things were
usually of the superlative. "Worst," "best," "poorest," "finest" were
adjectives most commonly to be found in his vocabulary, and between the
two extremes a great gulf appeared to be fixed. He had also declared
that he looked for Will to occupy no middle ground. He would either be a
pronouncedly successful man or an equally pronounced failure, a very
good man or a man who would be a villain. And Will had laughingly
accepted the verdict, being well assured that he knew, if it must be one
of the two, which it would of necessity be. All things had gone well
with him from the time of his earliest recollections. His home had been
one of comfort and even of elegance, any reasonable desire had never
been denied, he had always been a leading spirit among the pupils of the
high school, and that he was too, a young fellow who was graceful in his
appearance, well dressed, and confident of his own position, doubtless
Will Phelps was aware, although he did not give expression to the fact
in such terms.
And now the "superlative degree" had certainly displayed itself, Will
thought in his wretchedness, only it had manifested itself in the
extreme which he never had before believed to be possible with him. He
listened to the shouts and laughter of the students passing along the
street below and every fresh outburst only served to deepen his own
feeling of depression. Not any of the enthusiasm was for him.
He was roused from his bitter reflection by the opening of the door into
his room, but he did not look up, as he was convinced that it was only
his room-mate, and Foster understood him so well that he would not talk
when he saw that he was in no mood for conversation.
"Hello, Phelps! What's wrong?"
Will hastily sat erect and looked up. His visitor was Wagner, the
captain of the track team, the one senior of all others for whom Will
cherished a feeling of respect that was almost unbounded. He had never
met the great man before, but he had looked up to him with awe when
Wagner had been pointed out to him by admiring students, and he was
aware that the captain's reputation was as great in the college for his
manliness as it was for his success in athletics. Unpretentious,
straightforward, without a sign of "cant" or "gush" about him, the
influence of the young leader had been a mighty force for good in the
life of Winthrop College. And now as Will glanced into the face of the
tall, powerful young fellow and realized that it was indeed himself
whom his visitor was addressing, his feeling of depression instantly
gave place to surprise and in the unexpected honor he found it difficult
to express himself.
"Nothing much. I wasn't just looking for any--for you," he stammered.
"Won't you take this chair, Mr. Wagner?" Will pushed the easy-chair
toward his visitor as he spoke and again urged him to be seated.
"That's all right, Phelps. Keep your seat. I'll just sit here," replied
Wagner, seating himself upon the edge of Will's desk. "How do you feel
after the games?" he inquired.
"I'm a bit sore outside and worse still inside."
"What's the trouble?"
"I came in only third."
"Only third? Where did you expect to come in?"
"Why--why, I was hoping I'd get first in the hundred," Will managed to
reply.
"You're a modest youth," laughed Wagner, surveying his long legs and
laughing in such a manner that Will was compelled to join.
"Well, the fellows rather thought I'd win and that's what makes me feel
worse about it."
"They're only freshmen; they don't know any better," laughed Wagner.
"Don't let that bother you for a minute. I think you did well myself,
and besides, the freshmen very seldom win in the sprints. I don't know
that I ever saw one since I've been in college."
"Did you win the hurdles when you were a freshman?"
"Oh, I just happened to. 'Twas an accident of some kind, I fancy. Yes,
I think the soph who was ahead of me tripped and fell, so I crawled in
first."
"That will do for you to tell."
"Perhaps I did win. But that's neither here nor there. It isn't what I
came for. I didn't want to talk about myself but about you."
Will looked up eagerly but did not speak, though his question was to be
seen in the expression of his face.
"My advice to you is to go to work and try for the track team in the
spring."
"Do you think I can make it?" said Will breathlessly.
"I don't say that," laughed Wagner. "That's something to be decided
later. All I said was that you'd better 'try' for it. You've nothing to
lose if you fail and something to win if you succeed."
"But if I should try and then not make it."
"Yes, that's a possibility, of course. No man can ever tell about that.
But I shouldn't let it break my heart if I didn't make the team the
first year. Very few do that. All I say is go ahead and try. No man can
ever tell what's in him till he tests himself, can he?"
"No, I suppose not."
"Now don't have any nonsense about it, Phelps, and don't misunderstand
me. I believe in every man doing his best and then just resting there
and not crying over what he can't ever have. If a man does his best and
then doesn't have the whole world bowing and scraping before him because
he isn't very high up, that isn't any reason why he should kick. Take
what you've got, use it, test it, and then if you find you're not a star
but only a candle, why, just shine as a candle and don't go sputtering
around because you can't twinkle like a star. At least that's the way I
look at it."
"Perhaps a fellow's father and mother don't look at it that way."
"Are you having trouble with Splinter?" demanded the senior sharply.
"A little. Yes, a good deal. I detest the fellow!" said Will bitterly.
"No wonder you lost the hundred," responded Wagner with a smile. "Do you
know, Phelps, I had the same experience you're having with him when I
was a freshman."
"What did you do?"
"Do? There's only one thing to do and that is to do his work. But I
advise you to go down to his house and see him and talk it over."
"He won't want to see me."
"Yes, he will. He's not half so bad as you think. Try it; I did."
"He'll think I'm trying to boot-lick."
"No, he won't. You can run if you have to, can't you?" demanded Wagner.
"You've got a good stride, and, like trying for the track team, you've
nothing to lose and everything to gain."