A BATTLE ROYAL
It was four o'clock on a bright, warm afternoon in early May. Mr.
Fenton, walking briskly toward the athletic field, stopped for a
moment at the entrance, to gaze at the scene before him. In the
ball-field, beyond the grandstand, the nine was playing a practice
game against the subs. The tennis courts were filled, and the track
and field men were putting the finishing touches to their afternoon's
work. Ned Brewster, captain of the track team, was standing by the
side of the high-jump path, and Mr. Fenton, as he crossed the field,
stopped for a moment to talk with him. "Well, Ned," he queried, "what
are our prospects? Will we draw first blood in the track meet next
week, or will Ellis' desertion cost us the games?"
Brewster hesitated. "I don't really know, sir," he said at last. "A
week ago, I should have said that everything looked fine, but now I'm
not so sure. You see, Greenough's injury makes a big difference. I
think he would have been certain of the hundred, and would have taken
second in the two twenty, besides, but pulling that tendon puts him
out of everything. The doctor says he can't possibly go into the meet.
"And then there's Dick Randall--I was never more disappointed in a
fellow in my life. A fortnight ago, he was coming fast--his friend
McDonald was simply doing wonders with him. Why, one Saturday
afternoon I went over there with Dick, and he was certainly in great
form. I measured everything myself, or really I could hardly have
believed it. He did five seven in the high, and he cleared the bar by
an inch and a half at that. He did twenty feet ten and a half in the
broad, on his first try, and McDonald told him not to jump any more--
that that was good enough. And then he took his six tries with the
shot, and did thirty-eight three. McDonald told me that day that if he
could bring Dick up a little in the hammer, and if he'd get a little
faster at the hundred and the hurdles, that he'd give Ellis and
Johnson the fight of their lives in the Pentathlon. And then, just
when all he needed was a little improvement, instead of going ahead,
he started to go back, and he's been growing steadily worse ever
since. It doesn't seem to be his fault, you know; he feels more
disappointed about it than any one. He never sports at all, and he's
the most conscientious worker on the squad. But there's something
wrong. He isn't nearly so good as he was two weeks ago. You just watch
him now. The bar is only five feet four."
Mr. Fenton looked on attentively, as Randall prepared to jump. There
seemed to be a nervous hesitancy about his style. He started twice on
his run before he could seem to catch step correctly, and even then,
he ran more slowly than usual, as if he lacked confidence in himself,
and rose awkwardly at the bar, without much of his former spring. Yet
even with these faults, the attempt was none the less a good one. His
body was higher than the stick, and he seemed, indeed, just on the
point of clearing it in safety; but the necessary momentum was
lacking, and despite his efforts, he fell heavily on the bar, knocking
it off for the third successive time. He walked dejectedly out of the
pit, and stood gazing at the uprights with wrinkled brow, as if
striving to figure out the reason for his failure. Mr. Fenton walked
over to him. "That was a good try, Randall," he said cheerfully. "A
little more speed, and you would have had it. How are you feeling
these days? Pretty well?"
Dick paused a moment before answering. "Well, to tell the truth, sir,"
he said at last, "I don't know what's got into me lately. I was doing
quite well, two weeks ago, but now I'm no good at all. My weight is
all right, and I feel all right, but I don't seem to have any ginger
about me. Why, a month back I should have laughed at five feet four; I
should have called that just a practice jump; and now today I try my
hardest, and miss it three times running. And I've gone back in the
broad jump--I can't do twenty feet now--and I'm not up to standard
with the shot, either. The hammer is the only thing I've improved
with, and I was so bad with that I couldn't very well have grown
worse. Taking everything together, I'm really doing about as badly as
a fellow could; and I don't see what the trouble is. I never practised
so hard; I never thought so much about my events; I'm really
discouraged."
Mr. Fenton glanced him over critically, from head to foot. He seemed
worried and anxious, and while he appeared to be well up in weight,
and while his muscular development was better than ever, his color was
none too good, and his face looked somewhat drawn. Mr. Fenton gave a
little nod, like a doctor who diagnoses a patient's condition. "Well,
you look pretty well," he said, "but of course you've been doing quite
a lot of work. I should say, in the trainers' language, that you were
a little 'fine.' Why don't you take a rest, a complete rest, from now
until the day of the games?"
Dick shook his head, without intending it, a little impatiently. "Oh,
I couldn't, Mr. Fenton," he answered. "There's so much to learn yet,
if I go into the Pentathlon. There's a knack I'm trying to work out in
the broad jump, and that confounded hammer does bother me so. I think
and think about it, and finally I imagine I've got the idea, and then
I go out the next day and practise, and find I'm worse than ever. Why,
one night, I even dreamed about it. I thought I threw it two hundred
and fifty feet, and broke the world's record. Oh, but it felt fine. I
was taking three turns, and spinning around like a top, and when I let
it go, it went sailing off as high as the roof of a house. So the next
morning I tried to remember how I stood in my dream, and how I swung
the hammer, and everything, and then I went out in the afternoon and
tried to put it all into practice and what do you suppose? I fouled
about a mile, and got all tangled up in my feet, and fell down, and
pretty nearly broke my neck; so I've lost all faith in dreams."
Mr. Fenton smiled. "I don't blame you," he answered, then added, "How
have you been sleeping this last week or two, Randall? As well as when
you came here first?"
Dick hesitated; then a little unwillingly replied, "Why, I haven't
been sleeping so awfully well. It seems to take me a long time to get
to sleep, to start with, and then I usually have some crazy nightmare
or other about athletics, and then I wake up with a jump about three
or four in the morning, and can't get to sleep again. But I feel all
right, just the same. I'm not sick, sir."
Mr. Fenton laughed. "No, you look fairly rugged to me," he answered;
"but take a rest from now on, Randall. Don't do any more work
to-night; go in and get your rub; and forget all about athletics for a
while."
Dick nodded, picked up his sweater, and jogged off across the field.
The master walked back to where Brewster was standing. "Well, Ned,
there's no mystery about your Pentathlon man," he said, "it's as clear
as day. He's going 'stale,' as the trainers say; he's been doing too
much work. I don't mean too much for his health. That's all right, or
the doctor would have notified me. But Randall's a fellow with nerves,
in spite of his strength. And he's lost just enough energy, with all
the work he's been doing, to take the edge off his speed and his
spring. You must tell him to quit, right where he is; to lock up his
spikes and his athletic clothes; and not to come near the track again
until the day of the games. If he will do that, you will have him
ready for the meet, in as good shape as he ever was in his life. I
feel sure of it."
That evening Brewster went over the whole situation with Dick, and
gave him his orders, to be carried out to the very letter. Dick
promised to obey, and yet to keep from worrying was no easy task. The
whole school could talk of nothing but the coming games. Every one was
going around, with paper and pencil, figuring the final distribution
of the points. There were twelve events altogether; first place
counted five, second two, and third one; a total of ninety-six. School
spirit ran high, and no one figured in any other way except to give
Fenton the victory. Forty points was the favorite figure, and about
thirty each for Hopevale and Clinton. It was an interesting, if rather
unprofitable employment. And for Dick to keep out of the prevailing
excitement was next to impossible, especially when his schoolmates
would say, "We've got you figured for second in the high, Dick," or
"Do you think you can get third in the broad?"
Again, the program of resting, and keeping away from the field,
worried him more than anything else. Accustomed as he was to his daily
exercise, his muscles, after the first day's lay-off, began to
stiffen, and lacking the experience to know that this was something
which would disappear with his rub-down, and his first trial jump in
the competition, Dick fretted over it as if it had been some serious
muscle strain. Yet somehow, the week went by, and the day of the games
came at last.
It was a perfect afternoon, just pleasantly warm and still, with no
wind to trouble the distance runners on either stretch. The games were
scheduled for two o'clock. By one, the Clinton athletes had arrived;
shortly afterward, the Hopevale team put in an appearance; and by
half-past one the grandstand and the bleachers were filled, and the
boys were beginning to limber up on the track. Dave Ellis, with the
blue "H" of Hopevale on his chest, seemed in nowise embarrassed at
thus revisiting his old quarters, but came out to practise with the
rest, and put the shot well over thirty-eight feet in a preliminary
try. Shortly afterward, Dick had his first glimpse of Johnson, the
mainstay of the Clinton team. He was a good-looking, pleasant-faced
boy, who went about his "warming-up" so quietly and unobtrusively that
one would scarcely have selected him, at first, for an athlete of
prominence. Yet Dick, watching the play of his long, smooth muscles,
and noting how easily and springily he moved up and down the track,
knew that he was looking at a first-class man.
Promptly, at five minutes before two, the clerk of the course came
hurrying across the field. "All out for the hundred," he called,
"hundred yards, last call. All out for the hundred." The games had
begun at last.
Dick took his seat on the balcony of the dressing-room, and gazed out
at the animated scene. All at once it occurred to him that if he were
only a spectator, and not a contestant, he should be thoroughly
enjoying the whole affair. It was an inspiriting sight; the level
green of the field, the darker oval of the track, the grandstand,
bright with color; and now, walking slowly over toward the start of
the hundred, the six contestants, two from each team, each bound to do
his utmost to score for his school. He could distinguish Steve
Lindsay; the tall figure of Harris of Clinton, the favorite,
conspicuous in his striped jersey of red and black; and the figures of
the two Hopevale men, of whom little was known, with the light blue
"H. A. A." on their shirts. There was the usual warming-up, a word or
two of caution from the starter, and then his whistle blew loud and
shrill. There came an answering wave of a handkerchief from the spot
where the judges and timers stood grouped around the tape.
In the hush that followed, Dick could hear the starter's voice sound
sharp and clear across the field. "On your marks!" The six figures
crouched. "Get set!" They bent forward, tense, expectant. And then a
puff of smoke from the starter's upraised pistol--"Bang!" and they
were off, to a perfect start. Dick's hands clenched; his eyes strained
to distinguish the entries from his school. For a moment the crowd was
silent, and then, as the first thirty or forty yards were covered, and
the runners began to separate and draw apart, there arose a tumult of
shouts and cheers, above it all the cries from Fenton, "Lindsay!
Lindsay! Lindsay!" It was true enough. Lindsay was ahead, a foot or
two in front of Adams of Hopevale, with Harris several yards behind.
At fifty yards it was the same--and at sixty--and then all at once
Harris seemed to settle to his stride. He drew up on the leaders with
a rush, at eighty yards was on even terms, and then, forging steadily
ahead, crossed the line a safe winner, with Lindsay just beating out
Adams for second place. In a moment, Dick could hear the scorer's
stentorian tones echoing over the field. "Hundred yards dash--won by
Harris of Clinton; Lindsay of Fenton, second; Adams of Hopevale,
third; time, ten and two-fifths seconds." And then, on the big score
board at the end of the field, the huge figures were hoisted that all
might see.
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
5 2 1
With the cheers of the Clinton delegation still ringing out on the
air, the runners came jogging back to the dressing-rooms, and the next
event--the hundred and twenty yards high hurdles--was called. Already
the men employed on the field were setting out the obstacles on the
track. There were but four entries, for Barker and Jones, the Hopevale
hurdlers, so far outclassed their field that Arnold of Clinton, and
Taylor of Fenton had been entered with no hope of first or second, but
merely to battle for the single point which would reward third place.
Yet the race displayed the uncertainties of athletics in general, and
of the high hurdles in particular; for while Barker, the winner of the
previous year, took the lead at the start, and was never headed,
Jones, his team-mate, loafing comfortably along in second place, got
in too close at the sixth hurdle, struck it heavily, staggered a few
steps, and plunged headlong into the seventh, bringing it down with
him to the ground. After this disaster, there was no hope of a
recovery, and Arnold took second place, and Taylor third, making
unexpected and welcome additions to the winnings of their schools. The
figures on the blackboard were shifted, and Clinton's lead was
reduced, while the Fenton score looked somewhat small beside the other
two.
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
7 3 6
So ran the totals, and even as Dick studied them, the clerk's cry
sounded quick and sharp, "All out for the quarter; all out for the
mile; all out for the pole vault, hammer throw, broad jump." Dick
started. For the moment he had almost forgotten that he was to compete
at all. Quickly coming to himself, he rose, picked up his spikes, and
made his way down-stairs and across the field. Just ahead of him were
Harry Allen, Jack Morrison and Jim Egan, the three Fenton entries in
the quarter, and Brewster himself, rated as sure winner of the mile,
came jogging up behind him, and fell into step by his side. "How's
your courage, old man?" he asked.
"Oh, pretty fair," Dick answered, "we haven't made much of a start,
though."
Brewster shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, never mind the hundred and the
hurdles," he said, "we didn't count on much there, anyway. But we'll
score big in the quarter, I think; and if I don't go to pieces in the
mile, we might get something there, too. You tear down at that old
take-off, now, Dick, and we'll rip those A's off your shirt for you
to-night. You get us a point, anyway."
"I'll do my best," Dick replied, and an instant later he was answering
to his name, with the half-dozen other contestants in the event.
Stripping off his sweater, he took an easy practice jump, and as he
did so, a great load seemed lifted from his mind. He knew that he had
recovered his spring, and the excitement of the competition made him
feel that he could beat anything he had done in practice. "I guess Mr.
Fenton knew what was the matter with me, all right," he murmured to
himself.
His name was the first called. He made his mark at exactly fifty feet
from the take-off, laid the sleeve of his sweater at the edge of the
path, and walked back another forty feet or so for his preliminary
run. He tried to remember all the instructions that McDonald had given
him, but in his excitement, he could think of little more than of
hitting his mark correctly, and of getting a good lift into the air.
"All ready," cried the scorer, "Randall, Fenton, first try."
Dick stood erect, drew a long breath, and then, with muscles
tense and rigid, began his run. One--two--three--four--five--six--
seven--eight--came his preliminary strides, and he sensed, rather than
knew, that he had brought the toe of his jumping shoe just even with
the sweater's crimson sleeve. And then, for the last eight strides, he
ran with every ounce of energy he possessed; bang, he hit the take-off
fair and square, and landed far out in the pit, his knees thrown well
in front of him. There was a ripple of applause from the grandstand,
and he knew that the jump must at least have been a fair one. He stood
waiting at the side of the pit, while the measurers did their work.
Then the man at the farther end of the tape straightened up,
announcing, "Twenty feet, six and one-quarter."
Dick jogged back, well satisfied. The distance was nearly as good as
his best, and he felt confident of qualifying for the finals. Two or
three of the other contestants jumped in the neighborhood of nineteen
feet, and then Harding of Hopevale jumped twenty feet, three. No one
else equalled Dick's mark until Johnson's name was called. The Clinton
athlete stood waiting for the dirt to be raked over in the pit, and
Dick found himself, half against his will, admiring the Pentathlon
man's graceful, clean-cut build. He was an inch or two taller than
Dick, not so broad-shouldered or so muscular, but with that
indefinable stamp of the athlete, which for want of a better word, we
characterize as "rangy." As he started for his jump, Dick watched him
critically, noticing that he ran hard, with his knees lifted well into
the air, and then, as Johnson struck the take-off, and leaped, he gave
a little gasp of surprise. Here was form, indeed, beside which the
efforts of the others appeared as nothing. This was no mere run from
the board; it was a real jump. Johnson shot into the air, feet in
front of him, sailing along like a cannon ball. Instantly, the
grandstand burst into a shout of applause. From the Clinton section
came a continued burst of organized cheering, and the announcer threw
an extra impressiveness into his voice as he shouted, "Mr. Johnson
jumps twenty-one, three and three-quarters."
Johnson came walking back, a smile on his face. Dick accosted him
good-naturedly. "That was a dandy," he said. "You can have this event,
I guess. You won't have to jump again."
Johnson took the other's speech in good part. "Oh, I don't know," he
answered, sitting down at Dick's side and drawing his bath-robe around
his knees. "You can't ever tell till the last man's had his last try."
Then, after a little pause, he added, "Are you going to try the
Pentathlon, Randall?"
Dick nodded. "I think so," he answered, "though I don't expect to do
much against you and Ellis. Still, I guess I'll give it a try, anyway.
There doesn't seem to be any one else to represent the school. But if
I can't win," he added, "I tell you, right now, I hope you give Ellis
the worst licking he ever had in his life."
Johnson nodded. "I know just how you fellows feel about Ellis," he
said, "and I don't blame you a bit. A chap that will leave his school
in the lurch like that can't have much of the right stuff in him. But
I don't know about licking him. He's awfully good in the weights. And
the Hopevale crowd say that since he came there he's improved a lot,
too. I don't know whether it's so or not, but they claim he's beating
forty feet with the shot, right along. And that he's throwing the
hammer a hundred and sixty. But you can't tell. They may be trying to
scare us, so we'll think it's no use to enter, even. Never can tell
beforehand--that's my motto in athletics."
Dick nodded, and was about to answer, when the scorer called,
"Randall, second try." Dick rose, and was making ready for his run,
when the scorer waved him back. "No, don't jump, Mr. Randall," he
cried. "Sit down again, please. Wait till they run the quarter mile."
Dick nodded, and complied. Every eye in the field was turned on the
start of the quarter. The nine athletes stretched straight across the
track. Dick saw that Morrison of his own school was on the pole; that
Harry Allen was sixth in line, and that their third entry, Egan, was
on the extreme outside. "Bang!" went the pistol, and the runners were
off, in a mad burst for the lead to the first turn. There was little
to be distinguished for a moment or two, and then, as they rounded and
squared away for the back stretch, Dick's heart gave a great leap of
excitement. Morrison had held his lead, Egan had cut clean across in
front of the others, and was second; only Allen lay back, in seventh
position, apparently "pocketed" and unable to extricate himself. Up
the stretch they swung, in steady, rhythmical procession; from across
the field one would have said that they scarcely moved; so greatly did
the added distance deceive the eye. Once a Hopevale runner spurted and
tried to pass the leaders, but they quickened their pace in turn, and
he fell back into the ruck, beaten and exhausted. Dick could not take
his eyes from Allen's figure. He hardly realized, until that moment,
how much he cared for his friend; he felt as if he himself were
running the race; under his breath he was muttering, "Go it, Harry! Go
it, old man!"
Around the curve they swung, and squared away for home. A great shout
came from the grandstand "Fenton, Fenton, Fenton!" and then "Morrison!
Egan!" "Go it, Morrison! Go it, Egan!" again and again.
It was a Fenton victory; there was no doubt of that. The two runners
were yards ahead of the field, and though both were tiring, they
seemed certain of keeping their lead to the tape, well ahead of the
rest. Dick felt a mixture of emotions. He was glad, first of all, of
course, for the school, and yet, mingled with his joy, there was a
tinge of sorrow for his friend. For he knew Allen's ambition had been
to wind up his last year with a win, and he felt that after all the
work he had done, it would be only a fair reward. Yet, barring the
impossible, Allen was beaten. And then, while all these thoughts were
flashing through his brain in a hundredth part of the time it takes to
put the words on paper, the seemingly impossible did happen. All at
once, as Dick sought for his friend's figure in the struggling ruck,
he caught sight of him, running wide on the outside of the field, but
cutting loose at last, with all the energy which he had held in
reserve, while he had been forced to wait and hang back, pocketed,
against his will. He did not merely pass the wearied runners from the
other two schools; he flashed by them as if they had been standing
still. It was a sight to bring a crowd to its feet, and to its feet it
came.
Never for one instant did Allen's splendid stride relax. His eyes were
half closed, his head was thrown a little to one side, his lips were
drawn back from his teeth, but he ran like a race-horse, true, steady,
and game to the core, putting out the last ounce in him in a finish
such as Fenton Field had rarely seen. Twenty yards from the tape he
passed his schoolmates, still locked shoulder to shoulder, and keeping
still to his tremendous pace, swept by the post--a winner.
The whole Fenton section of the stand was in an uproar. First, second
and third; a clean sweep--all eight points in the quarter--here was
something to buoy up their hopes at last. Nor did this end their good
fortune. A moment later the mile runners were started on their long
four circuits of the track, and Ned Brewster justified all the
predictions that had been made for him. He had the rest of the field
outclassed, and saving himself for the half-mile which was to come
later, made no effort at fast time, winning easily in four minutes and
forty-eight seconds, with Sheldon of Clinton second, and Marshall of
Hopevale third. The scorer at the bulletin board again shifted his big
figures, and now they read:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
9 16 7
Dick went back to his broad jump trials with a light heart. It seemed
that the meet was as good as won. On his second trial he stepped over
the take-off and made a foul jump, and on his third, in his anxiety
not to repeat the mistake, he fell short of the board by almost a
foot, and though the actual distance was greater than anything he had
yet done, in measurement it amounted to but twenty feet and one-half
an inch. Yet he qualified for the finals, for Harding of Hopevale was
the only man who bettered his mark to any extent. On his second
attempt he cleared twenty feet, eight inches; while Johnson, after his
first good jump, waived his next two trials, watching the work of the
others to see whether he need jump again, or could save himself for
the high.
Dick had felt himself grow more limber with each successive jump, and
now felt sure that if he could once catch the take-off correctly, he
could improve his mark. On his first trial, in the finals, he
accomplished what he wished, and knew, even while still in midair,
that he had excelled his first performance. The measurer pulled the
tape up carefully to the mark left by Dick's heels in the soft,
well-rolled earth, and then announced, "Twenty-one one and a half."
Dick grew suddenly elated. It was the best jump he had ever made. He
was ahead of Harding; almost up to Johnson himself. For a moment he
even dreamed that he might prove the winner, after all. But his
triumph was short-lived. Johnson pulled off his sweater and took his
second try, and this time, putting a trifle more speed into his run,
cleared twenty-one, seven and a quarter. Dick failed to improve on his
second and third tries, yet he seemed sure of second place until
Harding's last jump. The Hopevale man put all his energies into his
attempt, and even from where Dick stood he could tell that the jump
was a good one. A moment later the announcer called, "Mr. Harding
jumps twenty-one, five," and Dick was put back to third. Yet he had
won a point for the school, and with it the right to wear his "F."
And now the clerk came running up with two sheets of paper in his
hand. He gave them to the announcer, who forthwith called out,
"Throwing the sixteen-pound hammer--won by Ellis of Hopevale--second,
Merrihew of Hopevale--third, Robinson of Fenton. Distance, one hundred
and fifty-eight feet, eleven inches."
There followed a storm of cheers from the Hopevale section, and the
announcer, raising his hand for silence, continued, "Pole vault, won
by Garfield of Fenton--second, Amory of Hopevale--third, Hollingsworth
of Hopevale--height, ten feet, six inches." Applause from Fenton, and
again from Hopevale, for the second and third had not been looked for.
And now the score board showed:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
14 23 19
Decidedly, matters were growing interesting. The next three track
events were run off quickly, and without making much change in the
relative positions of the schools. Brewster won the half for Fenton,
in the good time of two, two and a quarter, with Cartwright of
Hopevale second, and Donaldson of Clinton third. The two-twenty, as is
so often the case, resulted exactly as the hundred had done, Harris of
Clinton winning in twenty-two and four-fifths, with Lindsay of Fenton
second, and Adams of Hopevale third. In the low hurdles Fenton was
shut out altogether, while Hopevale was deprived of two points on
which she had counted, for though Barker, who had been first in the
high, repeated his victory in the longer race, and won handily in
twenty-six and three-fifths, Jones' injured knee was too stiff to
allow him to start, and Ballantyne and Salisbury of Clinton took
second and third for their school. Thus but two events--the shot and
the high jump--were left, and the score board showed:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
23 30 17
The shot was called first, and Brewster, his eyes gleaming with
excitement, came hurriedly up to Dick. "Do your best, old man," he
whispered. "Every point is going to count now. If you could get second
it would be great; even third would help a lot. This is going to be
the closest meet we ever had."
Dick nodded, though feeling little confidence in his chances. Ellis
and Merrihew, he considered, were practically sure of first and
second; with Ross of Clinton he felt that he had a fighting chance for
third. Every eye was turned on the shot ring, and the scorer called,
"Ellis of Hopevale, first try."
Ellis, big and strong and brawny, stepped forward with perfect
confidence, poised for a moment, and then leaped into his put. Even
Dick, much as he disliked the performer, could not repress a thrill of
admiration for the performance. It was a splendid try--clean, fast,
with a fine follow--and all done so easily that Dick could scarcely
credit his ears when the measurer gave his result to the announcer,
and the latter shouted, "Mr. Ellis puts thirty-nine, four and a half."
Two other contestants made tries which fell five or six feet short of
Ellis', and then Ross put thirty-seven, four. Directly after him
Merrihew, big and ungainly, with brute strength enough to move a
mountain, made a slow, awkward put of thirty-eight, two. Then Dick's
name was called. Again Brewster whispered, "Do your best, old man,"
and Allen slapped him encouragingly on the back. "Remember not to try
too hard, Dick," he said. Both meant their advice in the kindest
possible way, but it was a mistake of inexperience. Dick, for the
first time in his athletic career, in a really tight place, felt as if
he were moving in a dream, and his schoolmates' words only served to
increase his nervousness. He took his place in the ring. The shot
seemed to have grown terribly heavy, and forgetting everything that
McDonald had been drilling into him for the past weeks, he put
blindly, and walked out of the circle, scarcely knowing whether he had
done well or ill. There was an ominous silence, and then the scorer
announced, "Mr. Randall puts thirty-two, ten and a half."
Dick felt himself flush. There was a sneer on Ellis' face. He spoke
loudly enough for every one around the circle to hear. "That's the
Pentathlon man from Fenton," he said to Merrihew. "He's all right,
isn't he? He's a dandy."
With an effort Dick kept control of himself. And then the second round
began. It resulted in a general improvement. Ellis put forty feet and
one inch; Ross thirty-seven, eleven; Merrihew thirty-eight, nine. When
it came Dick's turn he forced himself to imagine that he was
practising alone in McDonald's field, with no crowd to trouble him. He
put his whole mind on his form, and as a result, did better, getting
in a try of thirty-six, seven. Yet he felt far from satisfied, and all
at once it flashed upon him that he was doing the very thing which
McDonald had told him, long ago, was his besetting fault, that he was
stiffening up too soon in his effort, and not getting the powerful,
sweeping drive which made Ellis' trials so successful.
The third round began. Ellis fell back a few inches, putting
thirty-nine, ten and a half; Ross improved to thirty-eight, four;
Merrihew put an even thirty-nine feet. "Thirty-eight four to beat,"
Dick kept thinking to himself. He had never done it in practice, but
now, if ever, was the time. His name was called. He was perfectly cool
by this time; he knew exactly what he wished to do; and poising easily
at the back of the ring, he swung into his put, and finished through
with every bit of strength he possessed. It was a better try than his
others--he knew that, on the instant--but was it good enough for the
point. The measurers seemed to take longer than usual over their task.
Finally the announcer cried, "Thirty-eight, three and a half." Dick
turned away, sick at heart. He had failed; the point was lost.
Brewster and Allen were at his side in an instant, cheering him as
best they could. "That's all right, old man," Brewster cried; "don't
you care. You beat your record. You can't do impossibilities. Don't
you mind." But Dick refused to be comforted. "A half an inch," he kept
repeating to himself, over and over again. "The least little bit more
ginger; the least little bit better form; a half an inch; confound the
luck!" and he sat gloomily watching the finals, which resulted as
expected, Ellis first, Merrihew second, Ross third. And the score
board showed:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
24 30 34
The high jump alone remained. Brewster figured for a moment, and then
came over to Dick. "I don't want to rattle you, old man," he said,
"but there's just one chance in a hundred still. Hopevale hasn't a man
that's any good in the high; Clinton's got Johnson and Robinson. If
you could get a streak of jumping and beat Johnson, we'd win by a
point."
Dick nodded. "I'll do everything that's in me, Ned," he said quietly,
and Brewster felt satisfied with the reply.
The high jump was soon under way. At five feet, two, only Johnson,
Robinson and Dick were left. At five four, Robinson failed, scoring a
single point for Clinton. And then ensued a duel between Johnson and
Dick. Dick was jumping in his old time form, with plenty of speed and
spring, and all the stimulus of knowing that he might yet save the
day. Both boys cleared five, five, and five, six, in safety. At five,
seven, Johnson failed on his first trial, and the Fenton supporters
felt a sudden gleam of hope. Dick made ready for his try, every muscle
working in unison, every fiber in his body intent on clearing the bar
in safety. He ran down easily, quickened his pace on his last three
strides, and leaped. It was a splendid effort, save that he had taken
off a trifle too far from the bar. He was almost over and then, in a
last effort to work his body clear he lost his balance, just grazing
the bar, and fell into the pit, landing with one leg under him. There
was a moment's suspense; the bar hung undecidedly, springing up and
down under the impact of Dick's body--and then, just as the Fenton
crowd were getting ready to cheer, it gave one final shiver and
dropped into the pit at Dick's side. The cheers were changed to a
groan of disappointment, and then the silence grew almost painful as
Dick did not rise. Brewster hurried over to him; Randall's face was
white with pain. "Ankle, Ned," he said. "Give me a hand up, please."
A moment later the doctor was examining him. "No break," he announced
at last, "and nothing really serious. But that ends it for to-day.
Another wrench, and you can't tell what would happen. Sorry, but it's
the fortune of war."
Dick protested vigorously. "I can get around on it," he cried, "let me
jog up and down, Doctor, and then take one more try. I don't care what
happens."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be foolish, Dick," he said.
"You couldn't jump three feet with that ankle. Don't walk on it,
either, you must give it absolute rest."
Yet Dick insisted, and gamely tried to hobble back to the jumping
path. The effort was vain. Things swam around him, and with a long
sigh of disappointment he sank back on the ground. "All right, I'll
quit," he said, and a moment later Johnson cleared the height, and the
games were done.
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
30 32 34
It had been the closest meet in the history of the schools. Half an
hour later, as Dick left the locker-room, leaning on Allen's shoulder,
he heard Dave Ellis' voice, holding forth to a knot of admiring
supporters from Hopevale.
"Turn his ankle? Not a bit of it," he was saying. "That's an old gag.
He knew when he was licked. He's got no sand. He won't go into the
Pentathlon now."
Dick shook off Allen's detaining hand and thrust open the door.
"Sounds natural, Dave," he said, meeting Ellis' surprised glance with
a rather grim smile, "but if it interests you to know it, he will go
into the Pentathlon, and perhaps he'll make you hustle, too." He
banged the door behind him and limped away, his hand on Allen's
shoulder, down the stairs.