THE PURPLE PENNANT
It was getting well along toward five o’clock and the sun was sending
slanting rays down Brent Field. The two-twenty-dash trials had been
run and the final in the low hurdles was just over. In the former
Perry, Kirke and Soper had all won places and in the latter Beaton and
Peyton had finished first and second and added eight more points to the
Clearfield score. The broad-jump and shot-put, too, were over and the
Blue had won first and third places in the former and first place in
the latter. Partridge had been a good second in the weight event and
Brimmer a poor third. In the broad-jump Toby Sears had captured three
points. Only the pole-vault, the two-twenty-dash and the hammer-throw
remained and the score stood: Clearfield, 36½; Springdale, 44½.
A moment ago the result of the ball game at Springdale had come over
the wire and had been announced, and Clearfield was feeling somewhat
dejected. Springdale had won, 8 to 2. That and the dismal outlook here
at the field had caused the purple banners to droop on their staffs.
But there was one purple flag that still flaunted itself bravely in the
lengthening rays of sunlight. It hung from the railing of the stand on
the third base side of the field, a handsome pennant of royal purple
with a wreath of green laurel leaves on it enclosing the letters “C. H.
S.” Behind it sat Louise Brent and a bevy of her companions. The girls
were in a quandary. Already several Track Team heroes were tied in the
number of points gained by them and the task of awarding the pennant
promised to be an extremely difficult one. If Guy Felker won the
pole-vault, which was possible at the present stage, the matter would
be simplified, for he would then have ten points to his credit, two
more than anyone else. The girls discussed the difficulty and referred
again and again to the score that Louise was keeping, but without
finding a way out of the quandary.
“There’s just one thing to do,” said Dick Lovering’s sister, Grace,
finally. “It was understood that the pennant was to go to the boy doing
the most for the school, wasn’t it?”
The others assented doubtfully. “I suppose that was what was meant,”
said Louise, “but I thought we could give it to someone who had made
more points than anyone else and that it would be all quite simple. But
with three and maybe four fellows making eight――――”
“That’s just it,” said Grace. “We can’t ask them to toss up for it or
draw lots, can we? So the best thing to do is to decide after it’s all
over which of them really did the best.”
“But how can we decide that?” asked May Burnham. “How are we to know
which did the best?”
“We can,” replied Grace convincedly. “Guy and the others will know if
we don’t.”
“Guy will have ten points himself if he wins the pole-vault,” said
Louise. “That would make it very simple.”
“I don’t believe he’s going to,” said another girl. “He’s just missed
that try, and I think that long-legged Springdale boy did it a minute
ago.”
“Oh, dear, if he doesn’t!” exclaimed Louise hopelessly. “There, he’s
gone and missed it again! No, he hasn’t! He hasn’t! He went over! Oh,
_do_ you think that makes him win?”
Evidently it didn’t, for while Guy was being congratulated by those
around the vaulting standard the bar was again raised and a boy with
a megaphone announced: “The bar is now at ten feet one and one-half
inches!”
But interest was drawn from the prolonged struggle there to the
track. At the beginning of the straightaway they were gathering the
contestants in the final of the two-hundred-and-twenty-yards-dash, the
last of the track events. Clearfield and Springdale had each placed
three men in the trials. For Clearfield these were Perry Hull, Kirke
and Soper; for Springdale, Knight, Lawrence and Gedge. The trials
had been done in twenty-four and three-fifths and twenty-four and
four-fifths, rather slow time, but the final promised to show faster
performances. It was figured that if Captain Felker could win five
points in the pole-vault and the Purple’s sprinters could capture first
and second places in the two-twenty, Clearfield might after all squeeze
out a victory, for Partridge was counted on to have a very good chance
to get the best there was in the hammer-throw, which had been going
on for some time in the field across the way. But it was necessary to
get eight points in the sprint, as it was reckoned, and there were few
who dared hope for such a result. Kirke, it was generally conceded,
might possibly win first place, but there were two good runners in the
Springdale trio who would certainly make a showing.
Perry drew the fourth lane, with Lawrence of Springdale on his left
and Orson Kirke on his right. Kirke looked grimly determined and
Perry was pretty sure that he meant to win. And, thought Perry, since
he had failed in the hundred he really deserved to. But Perry was not
yet conceding the race. He had made mistakes in his first race. He had
realized it afterwards. Now he meant to profit by what he had learned.
He wasn’t so frightened this time, either. He had been through the fire.
The crowd about the start drew back to the turf and a whistle shrilled.
Down at the finish a handkerchief waved response. The six boys stopped
prancing and settled to their places. The starter stepped back.
“On your marks!”
Perry, settling his toes into the cinders, heard the click of the
pistol hammer as it was drawn back. There was a sudden silence.
“Set!”
An instant’s pause and then the pistol spoke sharply and the race was
on. Six lithe, white-clad forms launched themselves forward, twelve
arms beat the air and twelve legs twinkled. Three of the six had drawn
ahead in the first lunge, Perry and Kirke amongst them. Twenty yards
away the field was already strung out. Kirke, running terrifically, was
a yard to the good. Perry and Lawrence were next. Soper was a yard or
so behind them. But that order changed again in the next few seconds.
Perry was breasting Kirke then and Lawrence was almost even with them.
Soper was making bad going and falling back. The shouts of the crowd in
the stands and around the finish made a crashing bedlam of sound that
drowned completely the quick _scrunch-scrunch_ of the runners’ shoes
and their hoarse breathing.
Now it was half-distance, and Perry saw the white figure at his right
fall back and felt rather than saw another form crawling up and up on
the other side near the rim. Lawrence held on, too, and fifty yards
from the finish Perry, Lawrence and Gedge were neck-and-neck, with
Kirke a single pace behind. Soper and Knight were already beaten. Then
Gedge forged ahead and the wild shouts of the Springdale contingent
took on new vigor. Cries of “_Clearfield! Clearfield!_” “_Springdale!
Springdale!_” filled the air. Dimly, Perry heard his own name over and
over.
Now the slim white thread was rushing up the track toward him. He had
no sense of moving himself, although his lungs were aching and his arms
swung back and forth and his legs, suddenly weighted with lead, still
spurned the track. It was as though he, in spite of the painful efforts
he was making, was standing still and the finish line was racing
toward him! For a moment he wondered about Kirke, but for a moment
only. The tape was but twenty yards away now and it was time for the
last supreme endeavor.
Gedge was two paces in front when Perry started his final rush. In ten
yards he was level. In five more he was back with Lawrence. Like a
white streak Perry breasted the string, his arms thrown up, his head
back, and after him came Gedge and Lawrence, Kirke, Knight and Soper.
Once over the line, Perry staggered, recovered and then fell, rolling
limply across the cinders. A dozen eager boys rushed to his assistance
and he was lifted and borne to the turf where, a moment later, he found
his breath.
“Kirke?” he whispered.
“No,” was the answer. “They got second and third. You broke the dual
record, Hull; twenty-three and four-fifths!”
Perry considered that an instant in silence. Then: “We lose the meet,
though, don’t we?”
His informant nodded. “Suppose so. There’s still the hammer-throw, but
I guess we’re dished. It isn’t your fault, though. You ran a peach of a
race, Hull!”
Perry climbed weakly to his feet, with assistance, and found that at
last he could take a long breath again. “I’m sorry about Kirke,” he
said rather vaguely.
“Are you?” gasped a voice behind him. “So’m I, but glad you won,
Perry!” It was Kirke himself. Perry shook hands with him and then
others pushed around for the same purpose; Lawrence and Gedge of
Springdale, and Arthur Beaton and Toby Sears and several others, and,
finally, Skeet, Skeet with puzzled admiration written large on his thin
face.
“I never knew you had it in you, Hull!” he declared, wringing Perry’s
hand. “Kid, you made a fine finish! I thought it was all over ten yards
from the tape, and then, bing!――you left him standing! But don’t stay
around here and get stiff. Beat it to the shower!”
“Wait! What’s the score, please?”
“Oh, they’re fifty-two and a half to our forty-six and a half. Cap got
first in the pole-vault, but Mander wasn’t placed. They’ve got the
meet, all right, but we made ’em fight for it!”
“Fifty-two?” repeated Perry, puzzled. “But don’t they have to have more
than fifty-four to win?”
“Yes, the hammer-throw isn’t finished yet. They’ll get three in that,
anyhow.”
Perry looked around. The field was already emptying. “I’ll get my
dressing-gown, I guess,” he said.
“All right, but don’t stand around too long,” said Skeet. “I’m going
over to see them finish the hammer. Better luck next year, Hull.”
He nodded and joined the throng straggling through the gate. Perry
hurried back up the field and found his dressing-gown and then,
disregarding Skeet’s suggestion, he too followed the crowd to where, on
the lot behind the field, it had spread itself in a half-circle around
the group of hammer-throwers. Perry wedged himself through to where he
could see a little.
“Hello,” said a voice at his elbow and he looked up into Lanny’s
smiling countenance. “You ran a great race, Perry. I wasn’t needed
to-day after all, was I?” He found Perry’s hand and clasped it warmly.
“Your time bettered the best I ever made in my life. Next year you’ll
have them standing on their heads, or I’m a Dutchman!”
“Thanks,” murmured Perry. “I guess I wouldn’t have beaten you, Lanny,
if you’d been there. How――how is this coming out? Is there any chance
for us to get the meet?”
“No, I think not. Partridge did a hundred and thirty-one and eight
inches, I believe, and no one’s come near him. But that big chap of
theirs will get second, I guess. Fudge Shaw is right after him, though.
There’s Springdale’s last try.”
Perry, standing on tip-toe, saw the hammer go flying off, but couldn’t
see where it landed.
“The worst he’s done yet,” exclaimed Lanny. “By Jove, I wonder――――”
There was a sudden stir of excitement about them. “If Shaw can better
his last throw,” a voice nearby said, “we may have a chance yet. But
he’s got to beat a hundred and twenty-four and something!”
“Is Fudge still in it?” asked Perry wonderingly. Lanny nodded.
“Yes, he’s been doing well, too. So far he’s only six feet behind the
Springdale chap, I understand. I only got here about five minutes ago.
There’s Guy Felker over there with the pennant the girls gave him.”
“Oh, did he win it? I’m glad of that. How many points did he make,
Lanny?”
“Ten; first in the high-jump and pole-vault. Here goes Harry again.”
Partridge walked into the circle, dragging his hammer, and the
measurer, far out across the field, scuttled for safety, the yellow
tape fluttering behind him. The crowd laughed and then grew silent.
Partridge spun and the weight went hurtling through the air. But the
result failed to equal his best throw.
“Now comes Fudge,” whispered Lanny. “Gee, but I wish he might beat that
Springdale chap. If we could get second place out of this we’d have the
meet!”
“Would we?” asked Perry, startled. “I thought――――”
“Eight points would give us fifty-four and a half,” said Lanny, “and
that would be enough, wouldn’t it? Funny Falkland is out of it. I
thought he was almost as good as Harry.”
Perry, dodging behind the heads and shoulders in front of him,
saw Fudge throwing off his dressing-gown and step, a rotund but
powerful-looking youth, into the ring. Applause greeted him. Fudge
glanced around and was seen to wink gravely at someone in the throng.
Then he placed the ball of the hammer at the back of the ring, closed
his fingers about the handle and raised his shoulders. Silence fell
once more and anxious faces watched as the hammer came off the ground
and began to swing, slowly at first and then faster and faster above
the whitewashed circle. Fudge’s feet sped around, shifting like a
dancer’s, until he was well toward the front of the ring. Then his
sturdy young body set suddenly, his hands opened and off shot the
flying weight, arching through the air, to come to earth at last far
across the sunlit field.
The crowd broke and hurried to cluster about the ring, excited voices
speculating eagerly on the distance. Out where the hammer had plowed
into the sod the measurer was stooping with the tape. Then:
“All right here!” he called.
A breathless moment followed. Heads bent close above the official as he
tautened his end of the tape over the wooden rim.
“One hundred,” announced the judge, “and ... twenty ... five feet
and....”
But what the inches were Perry didn’t hear. A wild shout of rejoicing
arose from the friends of Clearfield. Fudge had won second place and
Clearfield had captured the meet!
After that all was confusion and noise. Perry suddenly found himself
shaking hands laughingly with Mr. Addicks, although what the latter
said he couldn’t hear. Then his attention was attracted to a commotion
nearby as the crowd pushed and swayed. On the shoulders of excited,
triumphant schoolmates, Fudge, half in and half out of his crimson
robe, was being borne past. He espied Perry and waved to him, and
Perry forced his way through the throng just as Guy Felker reached up
and placed the purple pennant in Fudge’s hand.
“W-w-w-what’s this?” stammered Fudge.
“It’s yours, Fudge!” shouted Guy. “You’ve won the meet and you get the
pennant!”
“B-b-but I d-d-didn’t w-w-win this, d-d-did I?” gasped Fudge.
“You bet!”
“W-w-well, but wh-wh-why?”
“Because we needed three points to win the meet, you old idiot,”
laughed Guy, “and you got them for us!”
“And,” supplemented a voice that sounded like Curtis Wayland’s, “for
numerous other reasons!”
And Fudge, borne forward again, waving the purple pennant high in air,
had the grace to blush.
* * * * *
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.
――Printer’s, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.