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DICK RANDALL
[Illustration: Dick stood dreaming, gazing across the yard]
DICK RANDALL
_THE YOUNG ATHLETE_
BY
ELLERY H. CLARK
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
WALTER BIGGS
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1910
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN, N. Y.
TO MY NEPHEWS
WELD ARNOLD
AND
ALLEN WILLIAMS CLARK
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I The New Boy.
II Dave Ellis Breaks a Record.
III Dick and Jim Go On a Shooting Trip.
IV The Shooting Trip's Unexpected Ending.
V Duncan McDonald.
VI A Question of Right and Wrong.
VII A Battle Royal.
VIII On Diamond and River.
IX Foul Play.
X The Pentathlon.
DICK RANDALL
DICK RANDALL
CHAPTER I
THE NEW BOY
Fall term at Fenton Academy had begun. Dick Randall came slowly down
the dormitory steps, then stopped and stood hesitating, as if doubtful
which way to turn. Uncertainty, indeed, was uppermost in his mind. He
felt confused and out of place in his new surroundings, like a
stranger in a strange land.
The day was dark and gloomy. The sky was overcast, and the afternoon
sun shone halfheartedly from behind the clouds. A fresh breeze bent
the trees in the quadrangle, scattering a shower of leaves about the
yard. In spite of himself, Dick felt his spirits flag. 'A' thousand
miles lay between him and home; and except for a few brief visits,
made close at hand, this was his first real venture into the world.
Unaccustomed to the change, unacquainted with his classmates, with the
steady routine of work and play not yet begun, he was wretchedly
homesick; and strive as he would, he could not keep his thoughts,
for five minutes together, from his father and mother, and the
white-walled farm-house on the slope of the mountain, looking down
over the valley and the meadowland below. He felt ashamed and
disgusted with himself, for he was no longer a "kid"; he was almost
seventeen, and big and strong for his age; and yet, fight it as he
might, the longing for home would not down.
Thus he stood dreaming, gazing unseeingly across the yard, until
presently, with a start, he came to himself. A friendly hand smote him
between the shoulder-blades, a friendly arm was drawn through his, and
he turned to meet the somewhat quizzical glance of his classmate and
next-door neighbor in the dormitory--Harry Allen.
Instinctively Dick smiled. He had sat next to Allen at supper the
night before and had taken a liking to him from the start. Allen had
chattered away steadily, all through the meal, yet his talk had been
unaffected, entertaining, and wholly free from any effort at "trying
to be funny" or "showing off." He was Randall's opposite in every
way--as slight and frail as Dick was big and broad-shouldered, as
light as Dick was dark, and apparently, at the present moment, as
cheerful as Dick was depressed. "Well, Randall," he asked, "what you
got on your mind? Composing a speech?"
Dick flushed a little. "No, nothing like that," he answered; "I don't
know just what I was doing. Just thinking, I guess. You see--"
Allen interrupted him. "Oh, _I_ know," he said; "I've been through it,
all right. You can bet on that. Don't I remember the first day I came?
Golly, I should say I did. Talk about a cat in a strange garret. Well,
that was little me. Don't worry, though. Just about three days, and
you'll think you've lived here all your life. It's a dandy school.
You'll find that out for yourself. And Mr. Fenton! Well, if there's a
better master in the state, I'd like to see him. Teach! I guess he
can. Languages, you know--that's his branch. He's got Latin and Greek
down fine. And English! Why, they say his English course is the best
thing outside of college. He starts away back with Chaucer--'well of
English undefyled,'--Spenser, you know, _Faerie Queene_--and he brings
us right down to Robert Louis Stevenson. Oh, it's great! No fellow
from this school has flunked English for ten years. How's that? Going
some?"
He paused, a little out of breath. Dick smiled, finding something
humorous in the contrast between his classmate's breezy speech, and
the "English undefyled," for which his liking was so evidently
sincere. Yet he found Allen's talk acting on him like magic, and by
the time they had reached the end of the yard, his gloomy thoughts
were forgotten, and he was himself once more.
To the left, they could see the boat-house, and the faint blue of the
river, just showing through the trees; to the right lay the athletic
field, and it was toward the track that Allen turned.
"Come on," he said; "let's walk down and watch Dave Ellis. He's going
to try the Pentathlon. He's been training for it all summer. You met
him last night, didn't you?"
Dick nodded. "Yes, I met him," he answered. He had sat opposite Ellis
at table, and had admired his rangy and powerful build. Yet something,
too, in his manner, had repelled him as well; Ellis had seemed a
little patronizing, with a trifle too much of the "Conquering Hero"
about him. So that now Dick hesitated for a moment, and then asked,
"Say, Allen, if it's a proper question, what sort of fellow is
Ellis? Doesn't he seem pretty--well, I don't know just what word I
want--pretty--cocksure of himself, somehow?"
Allen did not answer at once, and when at length he did so, it was in
rather a guarded tone. "Well, you see, Randall," he replied, "I don't
believe I'd better say anything. Dave's a candidate for class
president next spring, and he's pretty sure to get it, too. Only--some
of the fellows have been sounding me to see if I cared to run, and if
I should, why, I wouldn't want you to think, from anything I said--"
Randall's face was scarlet with embarrassment. "Excuse me, Allen," he
cried, "I didn't know. I didn't mean--"
Allen hastened to reassure him. "Of course you didn't," He said;
"that's all right, Randall. I only thought I'd let you know. And as
far as that goes, there's really no reason why I shouldn't say what I
think about Dave, if you'll give me credit for being fair about it,
and won't think I'm trying to work any electioneering games. Here's
just what I think about him. I think Dave's a good fellow. And he's
certainly a remarkable athlete--one of the best, I guess, that we've
ever had in the school. All I don't like about him is, that he hasn't
much school spirit; I think he's for Dave Ellis first, and the school
afterward. But still he's all right, you know. He's a good enough sort
of fellow in most ways. One thing, though, he's got to look out for.
And that's his studies. He had a close shave getting by last year, and
I don't believe he's opened a book since school closed. Oh, Dave's all
right, but you'll find he's a good deal bigger man outside the lecture
room than he is in."
Dick nodded. "I see," he answered; "and I'm much obliged, Allen, for
telling me about the election. I won't go putting my foot in it again,
in a hurry. I'll know enough after this to keep my mouth shut, till I
begin to get the hang of things. Ellis must be a dandy athlete,
though. I never saw a better built fellow in my life."
Allen was quick to assent. "Oh, he is," he answered. "He's a corker.
He's six feet one, and weighs a hundred and eighty pounds. He's
awfully good on the track, and he pulls a fair oar, and I guess he's
the best full-back we ever had in the school. _Was_ the best fullback,
I mean. You knew we'd cut out football, didn't you?"
"Yes," Dick answered, "I heard about it. Was a fellow really killed,
Allen?"
His companion nodded. "Yes, Faulkner, of Hopevale," he said. "It
happened in the Clinton game. It was an awfully sad thing, too. His
whole family had come on to see the match. It happened in a scrimmage.
He was picked up unconscious. But no one thought it was really
anything serious. They took him to the infirmary; pretty soon he was
in a fever; went out of his head; and two days later he died. Injured
internally, the doctors said. So of course we cut out foot-ball, and
I'm glad of it, too."
Dick drew a long breath. "That was tough!" he exclaimed. "Think how
his father and mother must have felt! And the master at Hopevale, too.
I suppose he considered himself somehow to blame, though of course he
wasn't, really."
Allen shook his head. "No, of course it wasn't his fault," he
answered. "It was just one of those things no one could foresee. But
I'm glad they've stopped it, anyway. So now Dave's going to put all
his time into the track, because, you see, with foot-ball off the
list, it makes the Pentathlon more important than ever. This spring is
going to decide who wins the cup, and the way things look now, the
Pentathlon may settle the whole business. They've got a dandy
Pentathlon man over at Clinton--a fellow named Johnson--he won it last
year, and broke the record--made two hundred and eighty points--so if
Dave could beat him, it would be great for us, all right. I guess we
can tell something from what he does to-day."
They walked on for a few moments in silence; then Dick, with sudden
resolve, turned squarely to his friend. "Look here, Allen," he said,
"I know you'll think I'm greener than grass, but I read somewhere,
once on a time, that if a fellow didn't understand a thing, he might
as well own up to it, or else he'd never learn at all. And that's what
I'm going to do now. I'm not up to date on school affairs. I don't
even know what cup you're talking about. And I don't know what you
mean by the Pentathlon. I suppose it's got something to do with
athletics, but if you hadn't said anything about it, it might be
something to eat, for all I'd know. So if you don't mind, I wish you'd
explain things to me, and then, perhaps, I won't feel quite so much
like a fool as I do now."
Allen laughed. "Heavens," he said, "it isn't your fault, Randall; it's
mine. Here I go rattling on about everything, as if you'd been in the
school as many years as I have. No wonder I've got you mixed. Well,
now, let's see; I'll begin with the cup. No, I won't either; I'll
begin at the beginning; and that's with Mr. Fenton. Do you know
anything about what he did in college?"
Dick shook his head. "No, I don't," he answered humbly. "I told you I
was green. We don't know much about athletics out our way. Unless
plowing, and getting in hay, and chopping wood count for anything. If
they do, we might have a show."
Allen laughed again. "Well, they ought to, all right," he answered.
"What a bully idea for a Pentathlon! I'm going to speak to Mr. Fenton
about it. People couldn't say athletics were a waste of time then.
Well, to come back to _him_. He was a hummer when he was in college.
He was awfully popular, and he stood away up in his class, and they
say, in athletics, there wasn't anything he couldn't do. They wanted
him for the crew, and they wanted him on the nine, but he wouldn't do
either. I guess he didn't have any too much money then, and he told
them, straight out, that he'd come to college to work, and not for
athletics. He wasn't a crank, though; he took his exercise every day,
only he didn't waste any time over it. And finally the trainer of the
track team spotted him and got him to come out for the jumps. Golly,
but he surprised them. He never seemed to take such a lot of pains
about it, but I guess he was what they call a natural jumper. Anyway,
before he got through, he did six feet in the high, and twenty-three
two and a half in the broad. Perhaps that didn't hold them for a
while. So you can see he's a good man to be master of a school. He's
been through the thing himself, and he's got this whole athletic
business down fine.
"I remember the talk he had with me when I first came to the school;
it made me take a shine to him right away. He doesn't lecture you, you
know, as if you were a kid; he talks to you just as if you were grown
up, and knew as much as he did; maybe more. Well, first of all, he
told me he didn't think any school could succeed where the master and
the boys weren't in harmony; and then he went ahead and gave me his
ideas on athletics. He said he liked them, and approved of them, and
meant to do all he could to encourage them--but that he was going to
keep them in their place. He said athletics were to help out lessons,
and not to hinder them; and that there wasn't any need of any conflict
between the two. But if there was a conflict, he said--if a fellow got
so crazy over athletics that he couldn't study--then the athletics
would have to go. And if that made the fellow feel so bad that even
then he couldn't study--or _wouldn't_ study--why, then it would be the
fellow himself that would have to go. But he meant that more for a
joke, I guess; nothing like that's ever happened since he started the
school. It's a pretty pig-headed fellow that can't get along with Mr.
Fenton. He's got a great way with him, somehow or other; I don't know
just how he does it, but he gets lots of fellows interested in
studying that you'd think were too lazy even to want to learn the
alphabet straight. Oh, I tell you, Randall, he's all right."
Dick nodded. "I'll bet he is," he answered with enthusiasm. He was
beginning to feel the genuine _esprit de corps_; was realizing, for
the first time, that a school might be something more than a place
where one came merely to "do" one's lessons, and to learn enough to
enter college in safety. "Yes," he went on, "that sounds mighty
sensible to me. And as you say, Allen, where a man's been an athlete
himself, and a scholar, too, why, you can't help feeling a respect for
what he thinks about things. I can understand, though, about fellows
getting too much interested in athletics. I can see right now where
I've got to look out for that, myself. You've seen such a lot of it
here that you don't realize how it takes hold of a fellow that's never
had any show to go into them. I feel as if I'd like to try everything
in sight, if I didn't remember that my father's had to work good and
hard to send me here. And he wouldn't care much for cups and medals, I
guess. 'Book-learning,' that's what he wants to see me get. Still, I
suppose there's time for studying and athletics, too, if a fellow goes
at it right."
Allen nodded. "Oh, sure there is," he answered. "And don't get the
idea, from what I said, that Mr. Fenton's a crank about it, or that
he's the preachy kind, because he isn't. He's keen on physical
culture, you know. A fellow's got to take his exercise every day,
whether he's a star athlete like Dave, or the worst grind that
ever wanted to swallow a Greek dictionary, roots and all. Oh, Mr.
Fenton likes exercise, only, as he says, there's a happy medium
everywhere--in athletics, just as in everything else. He doesn't want
the fellows to underdo; and he doesn't want them to overdo; and he
keeps an eye on every boy in the school. He takes just as much pride
in having the fellows in good shape physically as he does in having
them go into college with honors; and I tell you we don't have much
sickness around here. So you needn't worry about exercise; there's no
reason why you can't try anything you want. And I should think, to
look at you, Randall, you'd make a crack-a-jack at something. How much
do you weigh? A hundred and sixty?"
His companion's build, indeed, fully justified his admiration. Randall
was strong and sturdy, from much hard work in the open, absolutely
healthy, and as rugged and active as a young colt. It was small wonder
that Allen, himself a member of the track team, looked him over with
an appreciative eye.
Dick flushed with pleasure. "I weigh a little more than that," he
answered. "About a hundred and sixty-eight, I guess. That's nothing,
though. Think of Ellis."
"Oh, well," returned Allen, "weight isn't everything." Then added,
with a smile, "You wouldn't think, to look at me, Randall, that I had
any pretensions to being an athlete, now would you? As the song says,
'I'm as thin as the paper on the wall.' I hardly disturb the scales
when I weigh myself."
Dick looked at him. "Why, I don't know," he answered frankly, and
half-doubtfully, "but I should think, somehow, you look as though you
could run pretty well."
Allen laughed. "Good guesser," he rejoined. "You've hit it, first
crack. I don't mean, of course, that I'm any good, but running's the
only thing I can do anywhere near well. It took a lot of hard work,
too. I was certainly a lemon when I started in. But last year I won
the quarter in the school games, and I got third in the big meet. So I
won my 'F', and that makes a fellow feel good, you know. Shows he's
done something for the school."
Dick looked puzzled. "Won your 'F'?" he questioned. "What does that
mean, Allen?"
"Why," answered his friend, "if you make the crew, or the nine, or the
track team, you get an athletic suit and a sweater. And on the shirt
and the sweater there's a big 'F', and a little 'A' on each side of
it. A. F. A.--Fenton Athletic Association. The crew fellows get a
white sweater, with the letters in red; the nine have gray sweaters,
with red letters; and the track team have red sweaters, with the
letters in white. And if you're on a winning crew, or a winning nine,
you can rip off the 'A. A.' from your sweater, and that leaves just
the big 'F', and shows you're a point winner for the school. With the
track team, it's a little different, because there it's more a case of
every fellow for himself. You can't have the same kind of team work
that you can with the nine and the crew. So when the big meet comes
for the cup, no matter whether the school wins or not, if you get
first, second or third in your event, then you're a point winner, and
you've got a right to your 'F'. Now, do you see?"
Dick nodded. "Sure," he answered, "I've got that all straight; but now
there's another thing I don't understand. What's the big meet? And
what's the cup? You were going to tell me about the cup when we
started, and then we got switched off on to something else."
Allen smiled. "I guess 'something else' was Mr. Fenton," he said. "I'm
pretty apt to talk people to death about him. I think he's a corker,
and I don't mind saying so. I'd rather have him think I was all right
than win my 'F,' ten times over, and that's putting it pretty strong,
too. Well, about the cup. That's a cinch to explain. It's just like
this. There are three schools, you see, right around here, in a kind
of ten-mile triangle. There's Clinton Academy and Hopevale and
ourselves. We've always had some sort of league with one another, in
all kinds of athletics, ever since the schools started, but six or
seven years ago the masters and some of the graduates got together,
and put things right on a systematic basis. Some rich old chap in New
York, who was a graduate of Hopevale, and had a couple of boys in the
school, donated a cup--a perfect peach--to be competed for every year
until one school won it three times and then it was to be theirs for
good. They put five sports on the schedule: foot-ball, base-ball,
track and crew, which counted three points each; and the Pentathlon,
which counted one. The school that won the most out of those thirteen
points held the cup for that year.
"Well, Hopevale made a great start. They had some dandy athletes in
the school then--some folks were mean enough to say that was why the
old fellow in New York gave the cup--but anyway, however that was,
they won, hands down, for two years running. The next year they
thought there was nothing to it--they thought they couldn't lose--and
I guess they eased up a little, and didn't train quite so hard as they
did the other years. Well, they got a surprise all right, for Clinton
beat them out. They made six points that year, to four for Hopevale,
and three for us. And then, the year after that, Dave Ellis entered
school, and we had our turn. We got so, with Dave at full-back, we
never thought about the three points in foot-ball at all--we figured
them just like money in the bank--all we used to wonder about, was how
big the score was going to be. And then, in the spring sports, we had
Mansfield pitching on the nine, and Harrison stroking the crew,
and of course Dave came in strong again on the track. Oh, we had
things easy for the next two years. The second year we won all
thirteen points--made a clean sweep of everything. So _we_ began to
get cocky--same as Hopevale--but we never let up, you can bet; we
worked as though we thought we hadn't a show, unless we kept on doing
our darndest.
"And then of course everything had to go wrong. Mansfield graduated
that year, and Harrison's father died, and he had to leave school; and
then this fellow Johnson came to Clinton, and he was certainly a find.
He and Dave had it out, hammer and tongs, in the track meet, and again
in the Pentathlon, and Johnson had the best of it both times. And
Clinton beat us by four points, and evened things up again. So you can
see what a scrap it's been, right from the start--it couldn't very
well have been closer--and you can imagine what it's going to be next
spring. Each school has won the cup twice, so of course this time's
got to settle it. Clinton has it all figured out that they're going to
win. They give us the crew, and Hopevale the base-ball, but they say
that with Johnson right they're sure to take the track meet, and
the Pentathlon, too. But of course no one can tell as far ahead as
that--it's foolish to try. Still, that's a pretty good prediction, I
think myself, unless Dave can show an improvement over last year on
the track. He says he can--he says he's been training all summer, and
that he's in the shape of his life.
"I know what he's figuring on. If the three schools should be tied,
and it should all hang on the Pentathlon, why, the fellow who won that
would be a regular tin god, you know; he'd go down in the history of
the school like George Washington in the history of the country. And
Dave wouldn't mind being that fellow a little bit. Not that I'm trying
to knock him, you understand. That's a good, legitimate ambition. I'd
like to be the fellow myself; only I need a hundred pounds of weight,
more or less, and about a foot more height, before I'd fit in the
Pentathlon. And there's another reason for Dave's practising, too; he
wants to get back at Johnson. Dave can't take a licking, you know; he
isn't used to it, and it hurts. He claims he's going to square up this
spring, but I'm not so sure. Johnson's an awfully good man, and the
Pentathlon's no cinch for any one, no matter who he is."
Dick, wholly absorbed in his friend's recital, drew a long breath as
Allen concluded. "By gracious," he exclaimed. "That is exciting, isn't
it? Suppose it did work out that way. Just think of it. To have it
hang on a single point, and then to have our school win--to have Ellis
beat Johnson. Oh, that would be great!" He paused a moment, and then
added: "Just tell me one other thing, Allen, and I won't bother you
any more. I've got everything else straight, but just what's the
Pentathlon, anyway?"
Allen laughed. "I'm going to send you in a bill for private tutoring,"
he said good-humoredly. "This is an awful strain on my mind, giving
you so much information free. And it would take a Philadelphia lawyer
to explain the Pentathlon straight. We go back a few thousand years,
just for a starter, to the days of the Greeks. 'The glory that was
Greece, and the grandeur that was Rome.' Edgar Allan Poe, Randall.
Ever read him? Ever read _The Haunted Palace?_ No? Well, you just waltz
into the library some day and take a crack at it. If I could write one
poem like that, I'd quit work for the rest of my life; I'd feel I'd
done enough. Well, never mind, that's not the Pentathlon, is it? I
need a muzzle, I think; that's the only trouble with me. Now, then,
reverse the power. Back we go, back to the Greeks. They had a kind of
all-around championship in their sports, you know; they called it the
Pentathlon. _Pente_, five; _athlos_, contest; five-event, I suppose
we'd say, now. First, I believe, it was running, jumping, throwing the
discus, wrestling and fighting; and then, later, they cut out the
fighting and put in the javelin instead. We've got the same kind of
thing to-day--the all-around championship they call it. Dave says he
means to try it some time when he goes to college. But it's too much
for school-boys, of course; it's ten events instead of five, and
there's a mile run in it and a half-mile walk.
"So our Pentathlon is modeled on the Greeks. We have five
events, too: hundred-yard dash, sixteen-pound shot, high jump,
hundred-and-twenty-yard high hurdles and throwing the twelve-pound
hammer. You see, it's a pretty good test. You've got to have speed for
the hundred and the hurdles, and spring for the high jump, and
strength for the shot and the hammer. And something else besides;
skill for all five of them. The four S's, Mr. Fenton says, speed,
spring, strength and skill. He's a great believer in the Pentathlon;
says it develops a fellow all over; arms and legs, back and chest; the
whole of him. There's a dandy prize for it, too--a silver shield with
an athlete on it, going through all the different events. But the
scoring is the ingenious part; the man who thought that up was a
wonder. You see it isn't like regular athletics--it's more like a kind
of examination paper. Take the hundred, for instance. If you went into
the Pentathlon and ran the hundred in nine and three-fifths--that's
the world's record, you know--you'd get a hundred points; just the
same as if you answered all the questions right in an examination. And
then, at the other end, they set a mark so low that the smallest kid
in school could beat it; twenty seconds, say. That's the zero mark,
same as if you answered every question in the examination wrong. And
for every second, and fraction of a second, in between you're marked
according to what you do.
"It's the same, of course, with the other events, so you _could_ make
a total of five hundred; theoretically, I mean. Of course, really, no
man ever lived--I don't suppose a man ever will live--who could be
fast enough to be a champion sprinter and hurdler, and strong enough
to be a champion weight man, and springy enough to be a champion
high-jumper--all at the same time. Johnson made the record last
spring--two hundred and eighty points--and that's awfully good for a
schoolboy. He isn't such a big fellow, either; I don't believe he
weighs much over a hundred and fifty; but he's fast--he can do a
hundred in ten-two, all right--and he's a good hurdler and jumper, but
he's not quite heavy enough for the weights. Still, Dave's got his job
cut out for him; there's no doubt about that. Well, here we are; and,
by gracious, we're late, too."