DAVE ELLIS BREAKS A RECORD
While Allen had been speaking, they had reached the entrance to the
field; and as they passed the gateway in the high wooden fence they
could see Ellis, on the other side of the track, just getting on his
marks for the hundred yards. Ned Brewster, the captain of the track
team, stood behind him, pistol in hand. Farther up the track, at the
finish, were the three timers: Mr. Fenton, Doctor Hartman, the
physical director of the school, and Jim Putnam, the captain of the
crew. "Come on," cried Allen, and breaking into a quick run they
reached the farther side of the field, halfway up the stretch,
just as the pistol cracked, and Ellis leaped away into his stride.
They pulled up instantly to watch him. He seemed to run mainly on
sheer strength, paying little attention to form. As he flew past them,
Dick, gazing at him open-mouthed, was dimly conscious of a number of
things. He noticed that Ellis' face was contorted with the effort he
was making, and heard his breath coming in short, agonized grunts,
"ugh--ugh--ugh--" as he strove to increase his speed. The cinders
crunched sharply under his flying feet, and with a thrill of envy Dick
saw on his crimson jersey the big white "F" of the school. He felt
that Ellis was indeed a hero. "Golly," he said half aloud, "if I could
only run like that!"
Allen, more skilled in estimating a runner's speed, and more critical
as well, showed little enthusiasm as Ellis, with a final effort,
breasted the tape. "I guess that wasn't much," he observed. "I don't
believe Johnson would worry a great deal if he saw that. Not better
than eleven, anyway, and I don't believe as good. Speed was never
Dave's strong point, you know. Let's find out how fast it was."
They walked up to the timers. Ellis, jogging slowly back, shook his
head as he neared the group. "Slow," he said. "I knew it, all the way
down. Couldn't seem to get going. How bad was it, Mr. Fenton?"
The master, a tall, finely-built man of middle age, with a pleasant,
clean-cut face, snapped back his stop-watch, then looked up at the
runner. "Why, it wasn't bad, Dave," he said cheerfully enough, "it's a
cold day for good time. No one could expect to do much on an afternoon
like this. You made it in eleven and two-fifths; all three watches
were the same. And that's not bad at all; it gives you sixty-six
points, to start with. Take your five minutes' rest now, and we'll try
the shot."
Ellis nodded, and walked away into the dressing-room to change his
light sprinting shoes for the heavier ones, with extra spikes in the
heel, to be used in the shot put and high jump. Five minutes later he
came out again and walked across the field to the whitewashed circle,
took an easy practice put or two, and then made ready for his first
try. The doctor and Putnam stood by to act as measurers, with the tape
unrolled along the ground. Mr. Fenton stood near the circle, as judge.
"Remember now, Dave," he said, "only three tries. Make the first one
safe and sure, and don't forget to walk out the rear half of the
circle, or I shall have to call a foul."
Ellis nodded, and at once made ready to put. Dick watched him
admiringly, as he stood motionless, his weight thrown well back on his
right leg, the toe of his left foot just touching the ground, the big
iron shot resting easily against his shoulder. All at once he raised
his left leg, balanced for a moment, and then sprang forward. The
instant his right foot touched the ground he brought his body around
like lightning, his right arm shot forward, and the big iron ball went
hurtling through the air, landing a good six feet beyond his practice
marks. Mr. Fenton gave an involuntary exclamation of surprise. "Well,
well," he cried, "you _have_ improved, Dave; that's excellent form;
and good distance, too. That must be thirty-eight feet, at least."
The doctor held the tape against the inner edge of the toe-board;
Putnam, at the other end, pulled it tight, and bent critically
down over the mark left by the shot. Then he straightened up,
waving his arm, with a broad smile on his face. "Bully!" he shouted,
"thirty-eight, five and a half."
Ellis laughed, well pleased. "I told you I'd improved, Mr. Fenton," he
said, "and I can beat that, too. I guess that's going to make
Johnson's thirty-four feet look pretty sick, all right."
He seemed wholly unconscious of the disagreeable boastfulness of his
tone. Allen, however, threw Dick a significant glance, which seemed to
find a reflection in the rather grim expression on Mr. Fenton's face.
The master looked as though he wished he had withheld his words of
well-meant praise. "Perhaps, Dave," he said quietly, "Johnson may show
improvement, too. It's better to overrate the other man than to
underrate him."
If he intended to throw any reproof into his tone it was lost on
Ellis, who seemed, indeed, scarcely to heed what the master was
saying. "Throw her back, Jim," he called to Putnam. "I'm going to get
her out for fair this time."
Putnam rolled back the shot. Ellis grasped it, balanced as before,
knitted his brows, stiffened his muscles, and then, with every atom of
strength at his command, delivered it. The result was disappointing.
Something seemed lacking, and Putnam rose from making his measurement
with a shake of his head. "Not so good," he called. "Thirty-seven
nine."
Ellis turned to Mr. Fenton. "That was queer," he said disappointedly.
"I thought I was going to lose it that time. Wonder what the trouble
was."
Mr. Fenton smiled. "You tried too hard," he said. "That's one thing to
remember, Dave, in the shot. The more you grit your teeth, and brace
yourself for a great attempt, the worse you're apt to do. On your
first try you stood up to it naturally, with your muscles relaxed; but
on that last put your right arm was so rigid there was no chance to
get your body into it. Now make this next try like the first one; only
when you land from your hop, then come smashing right through with it;
put all your strength on, just in that one second, and we'll see if we
don't get results."
Dick laughed to himself. Here, he thought, was a modern master with a
vengeance. What would the folks at home think of a teacher, renowned
for giving "the best English course outside of college," vigorously
telling one of his pupils to come "smashing right through" with a
sixteen-pound shot. And yet, while Dick smiled, he felt his respect
for Mr. Fenton in nowise diminished, but, indeed, rather increased, by
seeing him thus display his knowledge of track and field. For the
master, while always in friendly contact with his boys, never for a
moment overstepped the proper bounds of the relationship. He was a
hundred times more their friend, yet no whit less the master. Dick
could scarcely have reasoned it out, step by step, yet with
instinctive judgment, he found himself echoing Allen's words of a few
moments before, "Mr. Fenton's all right."
Ellis, with a nod of comprehension, made ready for his third try. He
started slowly, and then, as the master had suggested, put forth all
his strength in one tremendous lunge. The effort was successful; the
put was a splendid one. Putnam hurried to the spot, measured with
care, and then triumphantly announced: "Thirty-nine, seven and a
quarter."
Mr. Fenton nodded. "Very good, indeed," he said cordially. "This is a
fine start, Dave." He drew forth his note-book from his pocket,
calculated a moment, and then added: "Sixty-four points; that makes
one hundred and thirty, in two events. This looks like a record."
With the trials in the high jump, however, Ellis' chances appeared
less favorable. Even to Dick's inexperienced eye, it was evident that
the big full-back was never cut out for a jumper. He ran slowly at the
bar, from the side, clearing it awkwardly, with very little bound or
spring. Mr. Fenton shook his head. "Still the old style?" he queried.
"I thought you were going to try running straight at the bar in your
vacation, Dave?"
Ellis looked a little shamefaced. "Well," he answered, "I did try it,
Mr. Fenton, but I couldn't seem to get the knack, so I dropped it. It
didn't come natural, somehow."
The master smiled. "How long did you keep at it?" he asked.
Ellis considered. "Oh, quite a while," he answered. "A week, I guess,
anyway."
Mr. Fenton's smile broadened. "I think I told you, Dave," he said,
"before vacation, that you mustn't get discouraged too soon. It's one
of the hardest things in the world when you've once acquired your form
in an event, to try to alter it. I know, in my day, I went through the
experience. And it took me six months before I began to reap the
advantage of the change. Here's a more modern instance, too. I was
talking only this summer with the best pole-vaulter at Yale, and he
told me that to change from the old-fashioned style of vaulting to the
new had meant, for him, nearly a year of steady, monotonous work, with
the bar scarcely higher than his head, before he felt satisfied that
the knack was so thoroughly a part of him that he couldn't miss it if
he tried. Then he put his knowledge into practice, and a thirteen-foot
man was the result. So a week wasn't so very long, comparatively,
Dave."
Ellis shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I can't jump anyway," he
responded. "I'm going to get the agony over with. I'll have to make up
what I lose here in the hammer."
The bar was raised, two inches at a time, until four feet ten was
reached. Here Ellis missed twice, and just managed to get over in
safety on his last try. He had plainly reached his limit, and at four
eleven made three disastrous failures. He shook his head ruefully. "I
can't jump," he repeated. "It's no good my trying."
Mr. Fenton figured the result. "Forty-two points," he announced. "That
brings you up to a hundred and seventy-two. But if you'll practice
steadily at the other style, Dave, and not try to do too much at
first, until you've really learned the knack, you can jump three or
four inches higher, I'm sure. However, never mind that now. The
hurdles are next, and I think you'll make a better showing there."
Putnam and Allen had been setting out the hurdles on the track. To
Dick, they looked terribly formidable. Ten of them in a row, each
three and a half feet high, placed ten yards apart, with fifteen yards
of clear running at start and finish. "Gracious," he thought to
himself, "how can he ever get over all those without tripping. This
Pentathlon looks like a hard proposition to me."
Scarcely, however, had Ellis cleared the first hurdle than Dick felt
his enthusiasm return. It was all so different from what he had
imagined--the whole race was so pretty and graceful to watch. When
Putnam fired the pistol Ellis dashed away at full speed; then,
nearing the first hurdle, leaped forward, his body crouched, his legs
gathered under him, cleared it handsomely in his stride, and was off
for the next. Dick felt like shouting aloud, as Ellis swept down
toward the finish. Three strides between each hurdle, and then that
quick forward bound; Dick found himself catching the rhythm of it.
One--two--three--up! One--two--three--up! Ellis cleared the last
hurdle and flashed past the tape.
The three timers consulted, then Mr. Fenton announced: "Eighteen four;
fifty-two points; that's a total of two hundred and twenty-four." He
figured for a moment with pencil and paper, then turned to Ellis, as
he came walking back toward the finish. "First-rate, Dave," he said.
"A hundred and forty feet with the hammer, now, and you'll beat
Johnson's total. Do you think you can do it?"
Ellis nodded. "I can do that all right," he answered confidently.
"Just wait a minute, till I get my breath."
A few moments later he had taken his position in the seven-foot ring,
and was preparing to throw. Dick looked with interest at the leaden
ball, with the slender wire handle, and the stirrup-shaped grips at
the end. "Is that what you call a hammer?" he asked.
Allen nodded. "Sure, that's a hammer," he answered. "It is a kind of
misfit name, though, when you come to think of it, isn't it? They
really did use a sledge hammer, I believe, once on a time, but they've
changed it so much, you wouldn't think the kind they use to-day
belonged to the same family. Just watch Dave throw it, though."
Ellis crouched slightly, extending his arms straight out from his
body. He swung the hammer around his head, once, twice, three times,
constantly increasing its speed; and then, at the third revolution,
spun sharply around on his heel and made his throw. It was a splendid
try. The hammer went sailing out, high and far, landing with a thud in
the soft grass half-way down the field. Dick's eyes kindled. "Oh, say,
Allen, but that was pretty," he cried. "That's the best event of all
of them. I wonder if he did a hundred and forty."
There was a little delay over the measuring. Then Putnam put his
hand to his lips and shouted in across the field, "One hundred and
forty-two eleven."
Ellis picked up his sweater. "I'm not going to take my other throws,
sir," he said to Mr. Fenton. "I don't think I could better that one
much; and as long as I've beaten Johnson's total, I don't care. I
think, when I get a good warm-day next spring, I can do twenty points
better, too."
Mr. Fenton nodded. "I think you can," he answered. "It's too cold
to-day to do your best work. Everything considered, your performance
was excellent. If we can increase that high jump a little, you'll be
the next Pentathlon winner, unless Johnson shows great improvement
over last year. And I hardly think he will. His lack of weight is
against him for all-around work."
Ellis, visibly elated, jogged back toward the dressing-room. Mr.
Fenton and the doctor started to leave the field. The boys who had
been looking on walked after Ellis, in a little group, discussing his
performance. Dick turned to Allen. "Any harm in my trying that shot?"
he asked.
"No, indeed," Allen answered. "You've got just as much right as any
one else. Go ahead!"
Dick, a little shamefaced, picked up the iron ball; stood, as nearly
as he could remember, in the same position he had seen Ellis assume;
made a cautious hop, and a slow and awkward put. Yet Allen, watching
where the shot struck, turned and looked curiously at his friend.
"Golly, Randall," he observed, "you must have some muscle somewhere.
There wasn't a thing about that put that was right, but it went just
the same." He paced back toward the circle. "Close to thirty feet," he
said. "That's awfully good for a fellow just beginning. Try another."
Dick, secretly pleased at the impression he had made, determined to
give Allen a still greater surprise. Promptly forgetting what he had
heard Mr. Fenton tell Ellis, he braced his muscles, made a quick, long
hop, tried to turn, caught his foot in the toe-board, and measured his
length upon the field. Allen roared. "Oh, bully, Randall," he cried,
"I wouldn't have missed that for money. 'Vaulting ambition, which
o'erleaps itself.' That's you, all right. Didn't hurt yourself, did
you?"
Dick, picking himself up, grinned a little ruefully, as he
contemplated the grass-stains which decorated the knees of his
trousers. "No," he answered; "I didn't, but I surprised myself a
little. I was going to show you something right in Ellis' class that
time. I guess I'll own up that's one on me. I'm going to try that high
jump, though. That's one thing I did use to do when I was a kid. I
don't believe I'll break my neck on that."
They walked over to the jumping standards. "How high will you have
her?" Allen asked.
Dick smiled. "Oh, I'm cautious now," he rejoined. "Put her at four
feet. Maybe I can do that, if I haven't forgotten how."
Allen adjusted the bar. Dick backed away from the standards, measured
the distance with his eye, and ran down the path, increasing his speed
with his last three bounds. Then, easily and without effort, he shot
up into the air, sailed high over the bar, and landed safely in the
pit beyond. Allen gasped. "Good Heavens, Randall," he exclaimed; "what
have I struck? Why, man, you went over that by a foot. You've got an
awful spring."
Dick laughed. "Well, I had to do something to make up for the shot,"
he said. "But, honestly, it did feel good. I haven't jumped for a long
time, though I used to be pretty fair; or at least they thought so at
home. But that doesn't count for very much; it's a big world."
While they stood talking, the door of the dressing-room swung open,
and Ellis came out, followed by two or three of his friends. As they
passed Allen turned. "Say, Dave," he called; "did you hear about the
new Pentathlon champion?"
Ellis stopped. "What's the joke?" he asked, not over pleasantly.
Allen laid a hand on Randall's shoulder. "It isn't any joke," he
replied; "Randall here. He's just been beating all your marks. You
won't have a show with him by next spring."
[Illustration: Dick looked vengefully after Ellis]
He spoke banteringly, but any allusion to a possible rival always had
a sting for Ellis. He looked Dick over from head to foot; then slowly
smiled. "Guess he'll have to grow a little first," he said cuttingly,
and turned on his heel.
Two or three of his followers laughed. Dick felt his face grow red.
"Confound him!" he muttered.
Allen's grip on his shoulder deepened. "Don't you mind," he said
consolingly. "That's Dave, every time. Only one toad in his puddle,
you know. But you wait. If I know anything about athletics, you'll
show him something some day."
Dick looked a little vengefully after Ellis' retreating figure. The
athlete's words and tone both rankled. "If I could," he said slowly,
"I'd like to--mighty well."