AT THE FINISH
As soon as the runners had gotten away the spectators at the old Cider
Mill set out along the country road for the finish, a mile away toward
Broadwood. Some few had bicycles, but the most of them walked. Among
the latter were Dan and Alf and Tom. Paul Rand had started out with
them, but somewhere along the way he had fallen in with friends and had
deserted them. When they reached the finish they found a comfortable,
sunny place on the hillside and spread their sweaters.
“It’s warming up,” said Alf, “and I guess we won’t catch cold. I don’t
want any of you fellows stiff this afternoon, though. We’d better not
sit here too long, I fancy.”
“Oh, this is all right,” muttered Tom, squatting down. “What time do
the coaches start for Broadwood, Alf?”
“One thirty. And luncheon’s at twelve forty-five prompt. What time is
it now?”
“Eleven twenty-five,” answered Dan. “Say, who’s going to umpire? Didn’t
Payson say that Wallace couldn’t come?”
“Yes. I don’t know who they’ll get. It’s up to Broadwood. They’ve got
two or three men over there that’ll be all right.”
They talked over the afternoon’s game for awhile, contrary to Payson’s
instructions, and then Mills, the Broadwood captain, spied them and
joined the group. Mills was a big, broad-shouldered chap of twenty, a
splendid guard and a splendid fellow as well, and every man who had
ever played against him liked him thoroughly. He and Alf shook hands,
and then Tom greeted him and Alf introduced Dan.
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Vinton,” said Mills warmly. “I don’t believe,
though, that we need an introduction. I guess we remember each other
from last year, don’t we? Anyhow, I remember you――to my sorrow.”
Dan smiled.
“I hope you’ll remember us all to your sorrow this afternoon,” he said.
“I don’t,” laughed Mills. “Well, what do you say about it, Loring?” he
asked, turning to the rival captain. “How’s it coming out?”
“If I knew I’d tell you,” replied Alf dryly. “Honestly, Mills, I
wouldn’t attempt to guess. You fellows have got a ripping good team; we
all know that; and we’ve got a pretty fair one too. And there you are.
You’ve had some good coaching this year, haven’t you?”
Mills nodded.
“No kick there,” he said. “And we’ve got some good players. Well, I
want to win, and I guess you do, too, Loring. However it comes out it’s
going to be a good game. I wouldn’t miss it for a million dollars. By
the way, you fellows are going to use the gym this year. We’ve fixed it
so you can have the upstairs floor. That all right?”
“It’s fine, thanks,” answered Alf gratefully. “It beats trying to keep
warm in one of those confounded coaches. It’s mighty decent of you
chaps.”
“Not a bit. I don’t see why we haven’t always done that. I guess
the time’s going by when it’s the style to make the other fellow as
uncomfortable as possible in the hope that it’ll affect his playing.
Say, you had a rough deal at Brewer, didn’t you? What was the matter
with that referee? I sent Foley and Robinson over to see the game and
they were telling me about it.”
“Oh, he was just crazy under foot like a radish,” answered Alf
disgustedly. “The ball was dead and he didn’t know it.”
“Too bad. By the way, how’s this stunt coming out?” asked Mills with a
nod toward the finish line.
“Oh, we have this affair cinched,” said Tom lazily. “We’ve filled all
our runners with oxygen and put motors on ’em. You can’t beat ’em,
Mills.”
“I guess not, in that case. Well, I must mosey along. See you all this
afternoon, fellows, and I hope we’ll have a good, clean game. And if
you win, why, it’s all right――until next time. Only I won’t be here
next time.”
“Same with me,” said Alf. “But maybe we’ll have a crack at each other
in college, Mills. You’re for Princeton, I suppose?”
“Yes, if I pass! You going up to Yale?” Alf nodded.
“Same ‘if.’”
“Well, good-by,” said Mills, nodding. “Some of those runners ought to
be turning up pretty soon, I suppose.”
“He’s a mighty decent chap,” mused Alf, when the visitor had strolled
away toward where the Broadwood contingent was grouped at the finish.
“Wonder why we didn’t get him at Yardley.”
“You can’t have all the good things,” murmured Tom. “You’ve got me, you
know.”
“Yes, I do know it, you old chump.” There was a cry from a youth who
was watching the road from the vantage point of a tree limb and the
trio scrambled to their feet, rescued their sweaters and pushed their
way through the crowd which was struggling for positions along the road.
“There they come!” was the cry. “Two of them!”
“That’s Scott!” shrieked a Broadwood youngster.
“And the other one’s Goodyear, or I’ll eat my hat!” muttered Alf. “Say,
who’s got a piece of paper. Let’s keep score on them as they finish. We
can’t wait around here until those silly judges get through figuring it
up or we’ll never make school in time for luncheon.”
“Here’s an envelope you can have,” said Dan. “Got your pen?”
“Yes. Look at Goodyear, Tom! He’s passing him, by Jove! Come on, you
Goody! Eat him up!”
Nearer and nearer came the leaders, heads back now and arms hanging
listlessly. It was a gallant fight for four miles in time that set a
dual record for the distance that has never yet been surpassed over
the course. A hundred feet from the finish the two were running side
by side. At half the distance Goodyear went ahead. Scott tried his
best to pull down the scant lead, but the Yardley man held it to the
line, crossing a bare two feet to the good and securing for the Dark
Blue the individual honors of the meet, no matter what might happen
later. Yardley’s cheers filled the air, and, after the first moment of
disappointment, Broadwood added a hearty cheer for her rival to the
applause she accorded Scott.
“Yardley, 1; Broadwood, 2,” murmured Alf, setting the figures down. “So
far so good. Any more in sight, Tom?”
“Don’t see any, but there’s a lot of chumps on the road. Some one ought
to make ’em keep off.”
There was a wait then until the next group appeared. At sight of them
Yardley again broke into shouts, for the runner ahead wore the blue
stripe.
“It’s Maury,” said Alf. “I know the way he runs. The others are both
Broadwood chaps.”
Maury finished well ahead and Andrews and Crossett, of Broadwood, got
fourth and fifth place respectively.
“What does that make it?” asked Dan, leaning over Alf’s shoulder as the
latter set the figures down.
“Make it four to their eleven, but they’ve finished three men to our
two. Who’s this coming?”
“Two Yardleys with no one else near,” cried Dan. “I don’t know who they
are. Yes, I do, though. The first man’s Wagner.”
“And the next is Sherwood,” added Tom. “And there come two of our hated
rivals, and I hope they choke.”
Wagner and Sherwood trotted across the line and subsided into the arms
of their friends, limp and tuckered. Then came Holder and White, both
wearers of the Green, and after that there were no more for several
minutes.
“The score, gentlemen,” announced Alf, frowning over his scrawls, “is
Yardley, 17; Broadwood, 28.”
“Great!” cried Dan, with a caper.
“Maybe, but they’ve got five men in to our four.”
“That can’t be right,” Tom objected.
“Can’t it, Mr. Fixit? Why not? Look here. Yardley gets first, third,
sixth and seventh places, and that makes seventeen. See? And Broadwood
gets second, fourth, fifth, eighth and ninth, which foots up
twenty-eight. I guess we’ve got to get the next runner in, fellows.”
“Not necessarily,” began Tom. But just then a shout went up and the
crowd moved forward again. Far up the road trotted a single runner and
Yardley sighed her relief, for his shirt shone white in the sunlight.
A moment later a second runner appeared, a dark-shirted youth who,
in spite of the distance between him and the man in front, seemed
determined to overtake him.
“But he can’t do it,” whispered Dan half aloud. “Our chap’s got too
much lead. Why, that’s Thompson, Alf.”
“So it is. Good for him! Come on, you Thompson. Never mind about
looking back. Hit it up!”
But Arthur was still too far away to hear this advice. The Broadwood
runner was gaining in a way that would have elicited warm admiration
from the trio at any other time. Arthur was plainly on his last legs.
Twenty yards from the line he stumbled, recovered himself and came on,
only to fall in a heap finally in the middle of the road some ten yards
from the finish.