THE PENTATHLON
Doctor Merrifield, the elderly, gray-haired principal of Hopevale,
turned with a smile of satisfaction to his guest. "A record day, Mr.
Graham," he said, "and a record crowd. I think we may mutually
congratulate ourselves."
The head master of Clinton nodded in reply. "Indeed we may, Doctor,"
he answered. "Of course the fact that it's graduation week: has
something to do with it, but even then, I have never seen a gathering
like this, in the history of the schools."
There was good reason for their words. Mid-June had made its most
graceful bow to the world. A warm sun shone down over Hopevale Oval; a
cool breeze blew pleasantly across the field. The track itself had
never looked so well. It had been rolled, scraped, re-rolled once
more; the whitewashed lines had been neatly marked at start and
finish; the lanes for the hundred freshly staked out. Altogether, the
track keeper had done his work to perfection, and a man beaten in the
Pentathlon, whatever other reason he might have given for his defeat,
could scarcely have complained of the conditions under which he was
competing.
Equally good were the arrangements on the field. The high-jump path
was hard and smooth as a floor; a new cross bar was stretched across
the standards; a dozen extra ones lay ready at hand, in case of
accident to the one in use. The ring for the shot put was in
first-class shape; two shots, one iron, one lead, lay close by.
Three or four hammer rings were clearly marked on the smooth,
closely-cropped green turf. The most critical old-timer who ever wore
a shoe could not have found fault with the preparations for the meet.
And many a man, indeed, who had been famous in his day, sat in the
rows of seats which surrounded the Oval, eager to see the final
contest for the cup, whose possession meant so much to the school
victorious in this hard and well-fought fight. Fathers, uncles, elder
brothers, small boys looking forward to the day when they, in turn,
would take their places in the family procession, and come to Clinton,
Fenton or Hopevale, as the case might be; all were present in the
stands. Nor was it, by any means, a gathering of men and boys alone.
Mothers, aunts, sisters, most of whom knew little of athletics, and
had but the haziest idea of all that was going forward, lent, none the
less, a charm of bright dresses and brighter faces, to the scene. And
though the games were held at Hopevale, it was no mere local crowd of
spectators which had assembled to watch them. The colors of the home
school were naturally enough in the ascendant, but train after train
had brought its cheering followers of the two rival academies, and the
red and black of Clinton, and the crimson of Fenton, vied with the
Hopevale blue.
Doctor Merrifield looked across the track. "Here comes our friend
Fenton," he observed, "and evidently in a hurry, too."
Mr. Fenton walked rapidly up to them, his face puzzled and anxious.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said. "I find myself involved in a most
unaccountable mystery. I don't suppose either of you has heard any
word of Randall, our entry in the Pentathlon?"
Both of his colleagues gazed at him in astonishment. "Are you
serious?" said Mr. Graham, while the doctor said, "You don't mean to
tell us he isn't here. Why, it only lacks five minutes to ten."
Mr. Fenton sighed. "I can't understand it," he said, "and I can't help
being a little bit worried. I've notified the authorities, but haven't
heard a single word of him since yesterday afternoon. It's a most
extraordinary thing. And apart from my anxiety for Randall, it seems
hard to say good-by to our chances for the cup. However, the fortunes
of war--"
Mr. Graham interrupted him. "Why, we don't want anything like that to
happen," he said, "we'll waive our rule, I'm sure. Won't we, Doctor?
We can postpone the meet for a time."
Mr. Fenton made an eloquent gesture toward the crowded stands. "I
couldn't ask it," he said decidedly. "You're very kind to suggest it,
Graham, and I appreciate it. But if the positions were reversed, I
shouldn't expect you to ask the favor of me. It would never do to
interrupt the order of exercises, and disappoint a gathering of this
size. It would be a reflection, it seems to me, on our ability to
conduct our schools. No, I thank you, but, as I said before, it's the
fortune of war. Your boys must fight it out between themselves. I
suppose some day this will all be explained--"
An outburst of Hopevale cheers broke in on him. Dave Ellis, looking in
the very top-notch of condition, was walking leisurely across the
field. A moment later, Johnson's lithe figure emerged from the
dressing-room, and Clinton applauded in their turn. And then, even as
they stood listening to the tumult, they were aware of a growing
confusion at the entrance to the field, out of which presently emerged
two rather disheveled looking figures, making toward the locker
building at a hurried pace. At the same instant broke forth a roar
from the Fenton section, "Randall, Randall, Randall!" and Mr. Fenton,
taking an abrupt leave of his associates, started across the field, as
fast as his legs could carry him. "Thank Heaven," he muttered to
himself, "nothing serious has happened to him. But what can the
trouble have been?"
He found Randall hastily dressing. Dick looked up at him with what was
meant for a smile. "Can't explain now, Mr. Fenton," he said hurriedly.
"It wasn't my fault. I'm lucky to be here. If it hadn't been for
McDonald and Joe, I shouldn't be. But I'll tell you the whole story
later. I've got just time for my rub-down now."
For five minutes, McDonald's skilful hands worked over the stiffened
muscles, and as Dick jogged across to the start, he felt that his
speed and spring were in some measure returning. Yet the hundred
yards was disappointing. Johnson ran first, and moved down the track
like a race-horse, traveling in first-class form, and making the
distance in ten and three-fifths. Ellis ran second, and did eleven
flat. Dick, a little unnerved by all he had been through, made a false
start--something most unusual for him--and was set back a yard. Then,
in his anxiety not to commit the same fault a second time, he got away
poorly, and finished in the slowest time of the three--eleven and
one-fifth. It was excellent scoring, for a start, and Johnson was
credited with eighty-three points, Ellis with seventy-five and Dick
with seventy-one.
With the shot put, the lead changed. Johnson, considering his lighter
weight, performed splendidly, making an even thirty-six feet. Dick
found that his stiffness did not bother him nearly so much as it had
done in the dash, and made his best put of the year, thirty-eight,
nine. But Ellis surpassed himself, and on his last attempt, broke the
league record, with a drive of forty-one, two. His seventy-two points
loomed large, by the side of Dick's sixty and Johnson's forty-seven,
and the score-board showed:
Ellis 147
Randall 131
Johnson 130
Next, the high jump was called, and all three boys kept up the same
good work. There was small reason, indeed, why they should not have
been at their best. School spirit was rampant; it was to watch them
that these cheering hundreds had crowded the field; every successful
jump, from the lowest height of all, was applauded to the echo. Ellis,
as was expected, was the first to fail, but he managed to clear five
feet, two, and added fifty-four points to his score. Dick, a little
handicapped by the strain of the preceding night, could feel that his
muscles were not quite at their best, yet his long period of careful
training had put him in good shape, and helped out by the excitement
of the competition, he finally cleared five feet, eight. Johnson did
an inch better, and only just displaced the bar at five feet, ten,
scoring seventy-seven points to Dick's seventy-four. The three
competitors were now practically tied, and volley after volley of
cheers rang out across the field from every section of the crowd.
Johnson 207
Randall 205
Ellis 201
The record was going to be broken, not by one man alone, but by all
three. So much was evident, and the crowd awaited the hurdle race with
the most eager expectancy. Dick ran first, and finished in seventeen
and two-fifths; Ellis, his heavy build telling against him, in spite
of his efforts, could do no better than eighteen, two, and then
Johnson electrified the crowd by coming through, true and strong, in
sixteen, four. His eighty-four points put him well in the lead, while
Randall's seventy-three gave him a clear gain over Ellis, who, with
fifty-eight, now brought up the rear.
Johnson 289
Randall 278
Ellis 259
And yet, in spite of the score, Hopevale was jubilant. For the one
remaining event was the hammer throw, where Ellis was supreme, and
here they expected to see their champion wipe out his opponents' lead,
and finish a winner, with plenty to spare.
Each contestant was allowed three throws, and on the first round it
seemed as though the predictions of the home man's admirers were
coming true. Johnson threw one hundred and twenty-two feet and seven
inches; and then Ellis, taking his stand confidently inside the
circle, made a beautiful effort of one hundred and fifty-nine feet.
McDonald figured hastily in his score book, and came up to Randall.
"Don't be scared, Dick," he said, "one hundred and forty-five feet,
and you'll still be ahead of him. And that's only a practice throw for
you now."
Dick nodded. And yet, although he kept his own counsel, he knew only
too well that the worry and anxiety of his long night's captivity
were at last beginning to make themselves felt. His head felt heavy;
his legs weak; he doubted whether he could make the hundred and
forty-five. And then, taking his turn, his worst fears were realized.
He made a fair throw, indeed, staying well inside the circle, but
there was little dash behind it, and when the scorer announced, "One
hundred and thirty-eight eleven," Dick knew that Ellis was in the
lead.
In the midst of the Hopevale cheering, Johnson took his second throw,
and improved on his first trial by a couple of feet. McDonald shook
his head. "He's out of it," he said. "A great little man, too, but not
heavy enough for all-round work. It's you or Ellis, now, Dick. Johnson
won't bother either of you for first."
Dick nodded. Ellis made ready for his second throw with the greatest
care. There was little to criticize in his form. And backed by his
great strength, the hammer seemed scarcely more than a toy in his
hands. As the missile went hurtling through the air, the cheers
redoubled. Even from the spectators' seats it was easy to see that he
had bettered his previous try, and soon the scorer shouted, "One
hundred and sixty-five feet, one inch."
McDonald whistled. "He's a good man with the weights," he admitted
with reluctance; then figured again. "Dick," he said, "you'll have to
get in one good one. You've got to fetch a hundred and fifty feet, if
you're going to win. Don't stiffen up now. Keep cool, and think it's
only practice. You've done it for me. You can do it now."
Dick walked forward, and picked up the hammer for his second try. Out
from the grandstand came the Fenton cheer, and then, at the end, his
name "Randall, Randall, Randall!" thrice repeated. Where other
stimulants would have failed, this one was successful. Dick felt his
muscles grow tense as steel. He thought of Putnam, and the race on the
river. "Be game," he whispered to himself, under his breath, and
stepped forward into the ring, his brain clear, his nerves under
control. Once, twice, thrice, he swung the hammer around, his head,
and then, with splendid speed, turned and let it go. Clearly, he had
improved on his former throw. The measurers pulled the tape tight, and
then the announcer called, "One hundred and forty-nine, three."
McDonald calculated hurriedly; then gave a little exclamation of
astonishment. "A tie," he cried; "that puts you just even, and one
more throw apiece. Three hundred and forty-seven points each. A tie;
that's what it is."
Near Ellis' side stood a slender, dark young man, who had watched
Dick's appearance on the field with an expression of utter amazement.
Although the day was warm, he had worn, all through the games, a long,
loose coat, of fashionable cut, and now he crowded closer to Ellis'
side. "Pick it up, when I drop it, Dave," he whispered. "It's your
only show. You can't beat one hundred and sixty-five without it."
A moment later he walked away. And Ellis, stooping, put his hand on a
hammer apparently identical with the two which had been so carefully
weighed and measured before the games had begun. He held it
uncertainly, as if not overjoyed at his burden. Once he turned, and
looked imploringly at the man who had spoken to him. The man frowned
back at him savagely, and Ellis sighed, as if persuaded against his
will.
And now Johnson made his last throw. He tried desperately, and
improved his record to one hundred and thirty feet. But his chance was
gone, and he knew it, taking his defeat gamely enough, with a smile
and shrug of his shoulders. He had done his best; it was not good
enough; that was all.
"Ellis; last try," called the clerk of the course. Ellis walked
quickly forward, and got into position. Dick, watching him, seemed to
see a new power and skill in the way in which his rival swung, and
when he delivered the weight, Dick felt his heart sink like lead. Out,
out, it sailed, as though it would never stop. Hopevale was cheering
itself hoarse. It looked like a record throw. And finally the
announcer, scarlet with excitement, cried, in the midst of the hush
that followed his first words, "Mr. Ellis throws one hundred and
seventy-three feet, eight and a quarter inches, a new record for the
league."
Dick turned to McDonald, but McDonald was no longer at his side. He
was striding away down the field. The man who brought in the hammer,
after each throw, was just starting back with it, when a slight,
dapper fellow accosted him. "I'll carry that in for you," he said
pleasantly, "I'm going that way," and the man, thanking him, gladly
enough relinquished his burden.
Face to face came the kind-hearted stranger and Duncan McDonald.
McDonald reached out his hand. "I'll thank you for a look at that
weapon," he said grimly.
The stranger looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?" he asked.
McDonald grasped the wire handle. "Just exactly what I say," he
rejoined. "You're a wise guy, Alec, but you're up against it this
time. Hand over now; I haven't forgotten old times."
The young man forced a smile, and then, as McDonald wrenched the
hammer from his grasp, he turned and made off across the field,
swearing fluently under his breath.
McDonald hurried back to where the judges were standing, arriving just
as Dick was making ready for his last try. "One minute, gentlemen," he
called; "I wish to protest Mr. Ellis' throw, and the hammer it was
made with. I don't believe the hammer is full weight."
The chief judge looked indignant. "Mr. McDonald," he said, "this is
most unusual. The hammers were carefully weighed before the
competition began. And were found correct. In fact, both of them were
a trifle overweight."
"But you didn't weigh this one," McDonald insisted. "This one has been
rung in on you. I must ask you to weigh it, please."
Somewhat grudgingly, the judge complied; then started in astonishment.
He was a partisan of Hopevale, but he was an honest man, and he knew
his duty. "Mr. Announcer," he said quickly; "say at once, please, that
there was a mistake in Mr. Ellis' last throw; that an accident to the
hammer will necessitate giving him another trial." Then, turning to
the officials, he added, "This is exceedingly unfortunate, gentlemen;
this hammer weighs but ten pounds and three-quarters. Does any one
know how it got here?"
No one answered, and Ellis stepped forward to take his last throw,
this time with a hammer of correct weight. His face was troubled; his
former confidence seemed lacking, and his try fell well short of one
hundred and sixty feet. And then Dick came forward in his turn. The
controversy over the light hammer had given him just the rest he
needed; he made ready for his throw with the utmost coolness, and got
away a high, clean try, that looked good all the way. There was the
beginning of a cheer and then a hush, as the announcer called, "One
hundred and fifty-two, five."
The cheering began again, yet the result was so close that every one
waited breathlessly for the official posting of the score. A moment's
delay, and then up it went.
Randall 350
Ellis 347
Johnson 334
And then came the avalanche of wildly cheering spectators. Putnam,
Allen, Brewster and Lindsay were first at Dick's side, and it was on
their shoulders that he was borne across the field, a little overcome,
now that the strain was over, with everything appearing a trifle
dream-like and unreal, yet with three thoughts mingling delightfully
in his mind: that he had won, won in spite of obstacles, fair and
clean; that the Pentathlon shield was his, and best and most glorious
of all, that the challenge cup would come to Fenton--to stay.
Thus, through the shouting and the cheering, he was carried along in
triumph, and in the midst of it all, one other thought still came to
him--the best thought, perhaps, that can ever come to a boy's mind.
Hopevale Oval had vanished, and in spirit he was a thousand miles
away. "I wonder," he said to himself, with a sudden thrill of
happiness, "I wonder what they'll say at home."
THE END