CLEARFIELD CONCEDES THE MEET
But Clearfield paid dearly for that victory.
Late Sunday afternoon four dejected youths sat in the library at Guy
Felker’s house and waited for the report of Skeet Presser, who had
just joined them. Skeet, having stuffed his cloth cap into his pocket,
seated himself and smiled about him, but the smile was a dispirited
effort.
“Did you see him?” asked Guy.
“Yes, I saw him. Just came from there. He’s in bad shape, Cap. He’s
got two cuts just above his left knee as long as my finger and pretty
nearly to the bone. Ugly wounds they are, the doctor says. I didn’t see
them. He’s all bandaged up. Anyway, he’s out of it, Guy.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then:
“Can’t run at all, you think?”
“Run! Great Cæsar’s Ghost, how could any fellow run with a knee like
that? He’ll be lucky if he’s able to catch two weeks from now, I
guess.”
“Catch!” said Guy bitterly. “Confound his catching! If he hadn’t
insisted on doing that he wouldn’t have been hurt. It’s a nice outlook
for the Track Team, isn’t it? We’ve got about as much chance to win
Saturday as we have of going skating!”
The coach nodded. “That’s right,” he agreed. “Lanny was good for
thirteen points anyway. Well, I don’t know. Only thing we can do now is
make the best showing possible and――――”
“We’re not beaten yet,” said Harry Partridge. “Kirke’s nearly as fast
as Lanny in the sprints, isn’t he?”
“Nearly, yes,” replied Skeet. “But that’s not good enough. Springdale’s
got fellows nearly as fast, too. For that matter, that youngster
Hull has been doing some fast work. We may win a first in one of the
sprints; I’m not saying we can’t. It’s the hurdles that worry me most.
Lanny was down for both and he’d have run them both if we’d needed him.
With Lanny out we’ve got only Beaton here and Peyton. I’m not throwing
off on you, Beaton, but you’ll have to dig to beat out Springdale’s
best man.”
“I know,” answered the manager, “but, look here, Skeet, if we can
win one first in the sprints and get, say, six points out of the
hurdles――――”
“Oh, don’t be an ass, Arthur,” interrupted Guy crossly. “You can
figure until you get writer’s cramp, but that doesn’t alter the fact
that we’re dished. As Skeet says, the only thing we can do is to make
Springdale work hard for the meet. It’s perfectly rotten luck!”
There was another brief silence. Then Toby Sears asked: “How did Lanny
get hurt, anyway? I didn’t see it. I was so excited――――”
“Blocked off that runner of theirs at the plate. Someone hit a fierce
liner at Haley and he knocked it down and it rolled over toward third
base line. When he got it it was too late to peg to first and he
chucked it to Lanny about a half-second before the runner got there.
Lanny dropped to the plate and the runner slid feet-first into him and
his spikes ripped right across Lanny’s knee. It was a mighty pretty
piece of blocking, but he ought never to have taken such a chance.” And
Partridge shook his head dismally.
“It wouldn’t have hurt anything if they’d taken that old game,” said
Guy bitterly. “They had two more to play.”
“Seems to me,” said Sears, “it would be a good plan to keep quiet about
Lanny’s trouble. There’s no use in letting Springdale know he can’t
run, is there?”
“I don’t see that it matters much whether they know or don’t know,”
said Guy. “They’ll find it out Saturday.”
“No, Sears is right,” said Skeet thoughtfully. “We’ll keep it dark.
It may disarrange their plans if they find at the last moment that he
isn’t entered. Did their ball-players know he was hurt badly?”
“No,” answered Beaton, “I don’t think so. Lanny walked to the bench
pretty well. A lot of fellows were with him and I don’t believe
Springdale noticed anything.”
“Then we’ll say nothing about it,” said Skeet. “The doctor told me he’d
be around in a couple of days and Lanny says he’ll come out and do all
he can for us in the way of coaching. I’m going to get him to take the
hurdlers in hand.”
“How does Lanny take it?” asked Harry Partridge.
“Not very well just yet. Rather broken-up about it. He told me he would
rather have won the sprints than played ball. I wish he’d thought of
that before. Still, I don’t suppose we can expect the ball team to give
up the only first-class catcher they’ve got to oblige us.”
“Maybe,” observed Toby Sears, “it’s a waste of time, fellows, but
let’s go over the list again and see if we can figure out a win.”
“Figure all you like,” said the coach as he got up. “I’ve got to be
going, fellows. But when you’re through figuring just remember that
no meet was ever won with a lead pencil. If you want to win Saturday
just make up your minds that you’re going to go out there and do about
twenty per cent. better than you ever have done. That’s the only way
you’ll win. See you later.”
So well was the secret of Lanny’s injury kept that few knew of it until
his appearance at the field on Tuesday. It had been known that Lanny
had been spiked in blocking the plate, but it was not supposed that he
had been seriously hurt, and the sight of him swinging a stiff left
leg about with the aid of a crutch came as a big surprise. Even then,
however, Lanny laughingly denied that he was badly injured. “Just a
couple of scratches,” he said, “but they make my leg sort of stiff
while they’re healing. And I don’t want to take any chances, you know.”
That sounded all right, but by Thursday the truth somehow got out
and the school in general, by this time quite enthusiastic over the
dual meet, discussed it with dismay and disappointment. With Lanny
out of the meet Clearfield had, they decided, absolutely no chance
of victory, and fellows who had intended to remain at home and view
Springdale’s defeat on cinders and turf now decided to accompany the
baseball team on Saturday. “No good staying around here and seeing
Springdale lick the stuffing out of us. Let’s go over there and root
for the Nine.”
Fudge was one who predicted overwhelming defeat for the Purple.
He figured it out for Mr. Addicks and Perry one day and proved
conclusively that the best possible score for Clearfield was thirty-two
points. “And that,” explained Fudge, “means that we’ll have to get
eight points in the hammer-throw.”
“Maybe,” said Perry, “we’ll make a better showing than we expect,
Fudge. Mander almost equaled Felker’s record at the pole-vault
yesterday.”
“That’s all right,” replied Fudge firmly. “I’ve allowed us six points
in the pole-vault. We’re going to get licked good and hard. I’m sorry
for Guy Felker, too. He’s worked pretty hard ever since last year.
Remember how he got fellows out in the fall and made them work?
Everyone laughed at him then, but if it wasn’t for Lanny getting hurt
Guy would have shown them something. We’d have won easily if the meet
had been last Saturday instead of next.”
“I’ve seen it happen more than once,” observed Mr. Addicks, “that a
team with a heavy handicap has gone in and won. Seems like knowing
you’ve _got_ to work helps a heap sometimes. Don’t give in yet, Fudge.”
The last work for the Track Team came Thursday. There had been
time-trials for the runners Monday and some pretty strenuous work for
all hands on Wednesday, but Thursday’s practice was little more than a
warming up. Mr. Addicks, however, wasn’t in favor of letting down too
soon, and on Friday morning Perry was out on the track as usual and was
put through his paces quite as vigorously as on any other morning. On
Friday afternoon the track men went for a short run across country and
that ended the season’s work.
While Clearfield still looked for a defeat on the morrow, it no longer
conceded the meet to Springdale by any overwhelming majority of points,
and there were others beside Arthur Beaton who even dared hope for a
victory by a narrow margin. Captain Felker, however, was not one of
these. Guy faced the inevitable grimly, determined to at least make a
good showing. Lanny worked hard with the coaching and under his tuition
the two hurdlers, Beaton and Peyton, showed improvement by Thursday. So
far no inkling had reached Springdale of Lanny’s trouble and his name
had been included in the list of Clearfield entrants which was sent
to Springdale three days before the meet. Springdale’s list included
thirty-one names and she had entered at least four fellows in each
event. For the sprints and hurdles the number was six. Guy shook his
head dismally over that list.
Saturday morning Perry slept late for the first time in many days, and
after breakfast went over to Mr. Addicks’ rooms and listened to final
instructions. He was a little bit jumpy to-day. When Mr. Addicks had
delivered the last of his advice he suggested that Perry accompany him
across the river and watch him work. “The walk will do you good,” he
said. “If you get bored you can come back whenever you like.”
Fudge came in before they got started and went along. Fudge was about
as nervous as a block of wood. He was very full of the impending affair
but quite untroubled. The only thing that seemed to really matter to
Fudge was his chance of beating Falkland in the hammer-throw. Whether
he out-tossed the Springdale fellows apparently failed to bother him.
The boys remained with Mr. Addicks until the middle of the morning,
and then, extracting a promise from him that he would attend the
meet, they returned across the river and, a little later, witnessed
the departure of the ball team for Springdale, doing their share of
the cheering as the special trolley-car moved away from the Square.
After all, only a small number of fellows accompanied the Nine, most of
them, for one reason or another, deciding to stand by the Track Team.
Dinner was early to-day and Perry was far from hungry. But Fudge, who
had accepted Mrs. Hull’s invitation, did full justice to the viands, as
observed wonderingly and rather enviously by his host.
The program was to start at two-thirty and long before that the two
boys were dressed and waiting. The day was fair and hot, unseasonably
hot for so early in June. By a little after two the stands were already
well sprinkled with spectators. The Springdale team was late in
arriving and it was almost twenty minutes to three when the entrants
in the hundred-yards-dash were summoned to the starting line. Perry,
who had been restlessly circulating about the field for a half-hour,
followed the others with his heart thumping uncomfortably. It suddenly
occurred to him that he was about to take part in his first real race,
and that his effort was to be witnessed by nearly a thousand persons.
He looked across the field and down it to the crowded stands, where
purple and blue pennants made spots of color in the hot sunlight, and
for a moment wished himself far away. Then the names were being called
for the first heat and he forgot the watchers. To his relief, he was
not summoned. Neither was Lanny. Kirke and Soper were on the track with
three Springdale runners when the whistle was blown. There was a minute
of silence. Then the starter’s voice sounded crisply.
“Ready!... Set!...”
The pistol barked.