THE CROSS-COUNTRY MEET
The old Cider Mill, a dilapidated two-story building from whose roof
and walls the rotting shingles were fast falling away, stood――and
for that matter still stands――on the Broadwood road a mile from the
river bridge. Meeker’s Marsh edges up to the road there and a sluggish
creek meanders by it and flows through a runway at the back of the
mill before joining the river above Loon Island. The mill is no longer
in use and its sagging floors and decaying timbers render prowling
through its twilit mysteries an unsafe diversion. Like most deserted
and isolated country buildings it has gained the reputation of being
haunted. No one, however, takes the report very seriously, and, for
that matter, it would be an especially healthy and sturdy ghost who
would risk haunting a place which affords so little protection from
the weather. At night, with the moonlight throwing strange shadows
about it, one might well view it askance, but on a sunshiny November
forenoon there is nothing uncanny in its appearance. On the contrary,
it is rather picturesque, with the moss tinging the shingles and the
weeds and bushes crowding about its door.
It was at the old Cider Mill that the start of the cross-country race
was to be made. From there the course led up the Broadwood road for a
mile, crossed the fields and hills southward for three quarters of a
mile, found the road to Greenburg, passed through that town on a back
street, continued to the fork near the river bridge, turned north again
past the starting point and finished a mile beyond toward Broadwood.
Taken as a whole, the four-mile course was not a difficult one, since
only about a fourth of the distance lay off the roads. Each school
entered ten men, of whom only the first seven to finish were to count
in the result, the first to be credited with one point, the second
with two, the third with three, and so on, the team scoring the lowest
number of points with its first seven runners to win the race.
Ryan chose his ten runners from the dozen at his disposal on the
showing made during the last fortnight, and both Gerald and Jake Hiltz
were given places, while Henderson and Groom, neither of whom had
been doing at all well of late, were left disconsolate outside the
ranks. Gerald had been hoping for a place and more than half expecting
it, so he was not surprised when Ryan read his name off with the
others, who were Captain Maury, Goodyear, Norcross, Wagner, French,
Felder, Thompson and Sherwood. Goodyear and Wagner were believed to be
Yardley’s best runners, with Captain Maury a close third, and the Dark
Blue was hoping strongly that Goodyear would wrest first place away
from the Broadwood crack, Scott, although the latter had a reputation
as a distance runner which no one dared dispute.
At a few minutes before eleven the teams lined up in two ranks across
the road and the rules governing the race were explained to them.
Gerald found himself in the second rank between Felder, of his own
team, and a tall, fast-looking Broadwood youth. The Broadwood runners
were very neat and jaunty in their new costumes of dark-green shirts
and white trunks. Yardley, who had not considered the matter of attire
until too late, wore white shirts and trunks with a blue ribbon across
the breast. On the backs of the contestants were pinned their numbers.
Most of the spectators at the starting point owned allegiance to
Yardley, although a sprinkling of Broadwood fellows had journeyed
over to see the teams get away. It was at the finish, however, that
Broadwood had congregated most of her supporters. At two minutes after
the hour the word was given and the twenty runners trotted away from
the line.
A four-mile cross-country race isn’t exactly a sprint and there was
no rush for the front, no jockeying for position, such as takes place
at the beginning of a half or quarter. There was plenty of time for
spurting after the fellows had got their pace and their wind. Gerald
found himself in the middle of the group after the first few hundred
feet had been run, with Jake Hiltz just ahead of him. I’m forced to
confess that Gerald’s ambition that morning was not so much to assist
in a victory over Broadwood as it was to defeat Jake Hiltz, and even at
the start of the contest Gerald suited his pace to Hiltz’s and settled
down to run that youth off his feet irrespective of what happened to
anyone else. It was easy enough going for the first mile, for the
Broadwood road is well traveled and fairly level. As they approached
the point where the course left the highway and entered the fields, and
where they were to finish later on, they were met with cheers from the
crowd of Broadwood spectators lining the road there.
“Go it, Scott!” was the cry. “Beat ’em out! You can do it!”
The runners turned into the field with the Broadwood cheer ringing in
their ears. By this time the group had lengthened to a procession, with
Scott, the Broadwood crack, leading Goodyear, of Yardley, by a dozen
feet. Then came Captain Maury and Arthur Thompson, and two Broadwood
fellows close on their heels. Farther back Gerald was keeping a yard or
so behind Jake Hiltz. He had found his second wind now and, although he
was the youngest entry in the race, his form aroused several comments
from the audience at the turn.
“Look at the kid,” said one fellow. “Gee, Yardley must be hard up for
runners to put him in. Say, he can run, though, can’t he? Isn’t that a
pretty stride of his? Wonder who he is.”
“That’s young Pennimore,” some one informed him. “John T.’s son. They
say he will have more money than he will know what to do with when he
grows up. The old man’s a multi-millionaire, whatever that is!”
“Well, he certainly has a pretty way of using his legs,” said a third,
“kid or no kid.”
It wasn’t so easy now that they had the rough, frosty turf under
foot, and soon they were taking a long hill. The stragglers began to
drop farther behind. Between Scott and Goodyear and the next group
the distance lengthened. Thompson had dropped back and two Broadwood
runners and Wagner, of Yardley, had passed him. Hiltz and Gerald were
well toward the last. Once Hiltz glanced back and saw Gerald behind
him. “Hello, Miss Nancy,” he called over his shoulder. “Aren’t your
little legs tired?” Gerald didn’t waste his breath answering. At the
top of the hill Gerald looked back. The last half dozen fellows were
strung out for an eighth of a mile, some of them, noticeably Norcross
of Yardley, making hard work of the slope. A couple of stone walls
had to be negotiated next and Arthur Thompson, who had fallen back to
within a dozen yards of Gerald, tried to take the second one at a jump.
His foot struck in going over, however, and he fell on the other side
and measured his length in a patch of brambles. Gerald paused as he
reached him. Arthur was climbing slowly and rather dazedly to his feet.
“Aren’t hurt, are you?” asked Gerald anxiously.
“No, but I’ve got a beast of a stitch in my side, Gerald. I’m afraid
I’m out of it.” Arthur trotted along with his hand on his ribs. “That
hill did it. I was all right until then.”
“Take it easy. Maybe you’ll get over it,” said Gerald. “Let’s move up;
I don’t want Hiltz to get too much of a lead.”
“You go on,” answered Arthur with a groan. “I’ll go slow for awhile and
see if the pain lets up. Maybe I’ll manage to get a place.”
“All right,” answered Gerald. “Don’t give up.”
Hiltz had gained most of a hundred yards, but Gerald set to work
doggedly and unhurriedly, and by the time they had skirted the woods
and had found the Greenburg road he was once more on Hiltz’s heels,
much to that youth’s surprise and displeasure. The race was half run
now and Scott and Goodyear were still going easily and well within two
yards of each other. But they had pulled ahead of the rest and were far
down the road when Gerald felt the hard ground under foot again. The
outlying houses of the town came into sight and soon they were speeding
along a back street between rows of tenements and laborers’ cottages.
Hiltz and Gerald were running twelfth and thirteenth now and the pace
had begun to tell on both. Hiltz had eased up perceptibly and Gerald
could hear his deep gasps for breath. Gerald was in better shape, but
nevertheless he was not at all ill pleased when Hiltz began to slow
down. Before they had left the town two Broadwood fellows and French
of Yardley passed them. French was making hard work of it, although he
tried to grin bravely as he called: “Come on, you fellows! We’ve got it
cinched!” A quarter of a mile farther on, however, they overtook him
walking at the side of the road with drooping head.
“Sorry,” called Gerald as he trotted by.
French lifted a drawn, tired face, nodded and smiled wryly.
Then the bridge was in sight and, this side of it, the abrupt turn
into the Broadwood road that announced the beginning of the final
mile. Gerald was watching Hiltz sharply now, wondering whether to
try him with a spurt. As they reached the turn he made up his mind
and, quickening his pace, ran inside of his rival and gained the
lead. But Hiltz, although taken by surprise, wasn’t dead yet, and in
the next fifty yards he had passed Gerald and regained the lead. And
Gerald, quite satisfied, settled down into his former pace and plugged
away with aching muscles and tortured lungs. Far up the road Scott
and Goodyear were struggling for supremacy, two white specks in the
distance.