THE TRACK MEET
It was Saturday afternoon and Dud, squeezed into a seat on the little
grandstand between Roy Dresser and Ernest Barnes, was watching the
Track and Field Meeting of Grafton and Mount Morris. The baseball crowd
had gone off to play the Rotan College Freshman Team and by what Dud
considered a horrible error of judgment on the part of the coach he
had not been taken along. Of course, he hadn’t expected to pitch even
one inning against the college nine, but he did think that Mr. Sargent
might have included him among the substitutes. How was a fellow to
learn if he didn’t watch the team play? And to add to his sense of
injury, Jimmy had actually accompanied the nine to play right field!
Of course that was only because Boynton was entered in the athletic
meet and someone had to take his place, but it didn’t make Dud any more
reconciled. There were moments when he almost wished that the team
would run up against the defeat that was predicted for it!
Still, those moments were of the past, for during the last half-hour
Dud had been far too excited over the events taking place before his
eyes to recall the injustice done him. The sprints, the half-mile, the
high hurdles, the shot-put and the high jump had been decided and the
rivals were within two points of each other, Mount Morris leading with
28. Just now nine eager youths, four wearing the green-and-white of
Mount Morris and five the scarlet-and-gray of Grafton, were awaiting
the pistol at the start of the quarter-mile and Dud’s eyes were
riveted on them. Warren Yetter, on whom Grafton’s hopes rested, was
the second man from the pole and, oddly enough, Kirkwell, the Mount
Morris crack, was at his right elbow. Dud could see them talking to
each other smilingly, but for all of that a bit constrainedly. Then
the nine bodies poised, there was an instant’s silence and the sharp
report of the starting pistol sounded on the still air. The runners
leaped away, jockeyed for positions in the first dozen strides and
swept past the stand like frightened deer. Dud was on his feet, and so
too were all those around him. Inarticulate sounds made a background
for the strident shouts and yells of encouragement. Along the grass a
Mount Morris youth, an official of some sort, raced beside the runners,
dangling a white sweater with a broad green band on it, yelping and
urging. Now they were at the first corner, Kirkwell leading and Yetter
a yard behind him. Tenney, of Grafton, strove to pass Yetter on the
outside and was followed closely by a Mount Morris runner. At the next
corner the first four were strung out and hugging the rim: Kirkwell,
Yetter, Tenney and Number 54. Dud sought hurriedly for his program to
discover the identity of Number 54, realized the next moment that he
didn’t care, swept his gaze back across the field quickly and joined
his voice in the roar that swept from the stand. Yetter was sprinting
gamely now. Only a yard separated him from Kirkwell. Tenney was certain
of third place. The finish was only a few yards away. Yetter crept
up and up! The shouts increased. The stand was a pandemonium. The
officials, packed about the finish line, were waving and shouting, too,
all but the judges and timers. Yetter and Kirkwell swept to the line
side by side! Or did they? Wasn’t the Mount Morris man a little ahead
as they disappeared behind the group there? The tumult had quieted, but
now it broke forth again and the shouting came from the other end of
the stand. Across the field a half-dozen jubilant Mount Morris fellows
were tossing their hats in air and signaling victory!
“That was a peach of a finish,” said Roy Dresser, with a sigh of
relief. “Warren almost had him.”
“That puts them another point ahead,” said Dud, grudgingly crediting
Mount Morris with 5. “Gee, I thought Yetter was supposed to have the
four-forty cinched!”
“I guess he ran it inside his best time,” replied Roy. “Kirkwell was
better, that’s all.”
The announcer was bawling forth the result:
“Four-Hundred-and-Forty-Yards-Run! Won by C. J. Kirkwell, Mount Morris!
W. H. Yetter, Grafton, second; A. L. Tenney, Grafton, third. Time, 52⅗
seconds!”
“Wow!” exclaimed Roy. “That’s a fifth better than the dual record! I
told you Warren was going some!”
Dud tried to glean comfort from the fact, but those five points stared
at him obstinately. They were putting the low hurdles across the cinder
for the final heat, while at the end of the oval lithe forms sprang in
air to waft themselves over the bar nearly ten feet above the ground or
to go, doubled up like an animated jack-knife, flying into the brown
loam of the jumping pit. Behind the stand the hammer-throwers were
still busy. Dud watched Jim Quinn launch himself upward with his long
pole, straighten a tense body and drop across the trembling bar and
sighed with relief. The pole vault might decide the meeting and so far
Quinn was more than holding his own.
Musgrave and Keyes, of Grafton, and Torrey and Capper, of the rival
school, crouched far up the track. At the finish a handkerchief waved.
The four figures set, straightened and leaped away from their marks and
the sound of the pistol followed them. Down they came, stride, stride,
stride, leap; Torrey gaining between hurdles, Keyes pulling him back
at the timbers; Musgrave and Capper falling behind but fighting gamely
for third place. On and on to the growing roar of the excited watchers,
hurdle after hurdle falling behind. Torrey well in advance now, but
Keyes pushing him for every ounce of strength in his body. Two more
hurdles left. Torrey is over! Keyes is over! A mad race for the final
obstacle, Torrey again gaining on the flat, but Keyes, head back, feet
twinkling, only a yard behind. Up again and over, almost side by side
at the next stride. Then the dash to the string, Torrey, arms upthrown,
breaking it a stride ahead of Keyes! Mount Morris shouts wildly and
Grafton joins, for Ned Musgrave has beaten out his rival handily and
again the points go five to Mount Morris and four to Grafton, and Mount
Morris had been conceded first and third places!
Dud is a trifle comforted as he sinks back to his seat and scratches
agitatedly with his stubby pencil. Barnes, munching chocolate
philosophically, asks the score.
“Thirty-eight to thirty-four,” replies Dud.
“We’re a goner then.”
“We are not! Wait till the mile run comes off! Foster Tray will win
that at a walk, and we may get second place too.”
“Yes, and Mount Morris will win the broad jump and the hammer.” Barnes
pushes the last of the chocolate between stained lips and wipes sticky
fingers on a dingy handkerchief. “Say, I wonder how the baseball game
is coming out.”
“We’ll get licked. Here come the milers. Who’s the fellow in the blue
and yellow bathrobe, Roy?”
“Milton. He ought to do pretty well. He ran fifth last year and they
say he’s a lot faster now. I don’t see――――”
“The bar is now at nine feet, ten and one-half inches!” announces a
voice, and they turn their gaze to see a Mount Morris youth rise in
air, straighten and come hurtling to earth with the bar on top of him.
“So sorry,” murmurs Roy Dresser. “Hope he does it again next time.”
The megaphone artist trots into the middle of the arena and faces the
stand, a slip of paper in his hand. The voices are stilled as he places
the scarlet horn to his mouth. “At the end of the fifth inning――――”
Deep silence now!
“――At Rotan the score stands: Grafton 5――――”
An outburst of cheers, quickly stilled.
“――Rotan 11!”
A moment of gloom, broken by ironical cheers from the Mount Morris end
of the stand.
“What do you know about that?” asks Dud wonderingly. “They must have
hammered Myatt for fair! Eleven to five! Gee!”
“What I want to know,” observes Barnes, “is how we got five!”
Dud observes him in faint disgust. “Oh, I suppose they gave them to us!
Don’t you think we can play ball at all?”
“I didn’t think we could hit that fellow Gibbs,” Barnes answers
carelessly. “He’s a wonder, you know.”
“Well, even wonders have their off days. I guess Myatt had one today!
Gee, eleven runs!”
“I’m just as well pleased I didn’t go, Baker. The crowd will be dead
sore when they get back. It costs nearly two dollars to make that trip.”
“We’ve just simply got to get this meet,” mutters Dud. “We can’t get
beaten all around today!”
“I’ve known it to happen,” says Roy unfeelingly. “Here they go! Must be
two dozen of ’em!”
In truth there were exactly fourteen, about evenly divided between
the two schools. They hustled away confusedly and went to the corner
weaving in and out, slowing their strides. Four times around a
quarter-mile track is no pleasure jaunt and they knew it. Foster Tray
was well in the rear of the bunch and he stayed there as long as the
pace suited him, but at the finish of the first lap he had crawled up
to third place, with Towne, of Mount Morris, and Milton, of Grafton,
leading in that order. The field was already strung out, for the pace
had been fairly fast for the tyros. In the backstretch a Mount Morris
youth sprinted from the center of the first bunch and swept into the
lead, no one disputing him. But he lasted only to the beginning of
the homestretch and when the leaders came past the stand again Towne
was first and Tray second. Milton was back in fourth place, behind
a teammate. Then came three Mount Morris fellows and, after them, a
straggling line of pluggers.
The time was shouted to them as they went by, but there was too much
shouting from the stand for Dud to hear it. At the next corner Milton
hustled past the third runner and fell in behind Tray, and Grafton
cheered that indication of pluck. But by the time the backstretch
was once more ahead Towne and Tray were yards to the good and both
Milton and the man behind him were losing ground. There was no sign of
weariness shown by either of the leaders. Towne was running a fine,
steady race and seemed well within himself. Tray, not so pretty a
runner, looked to be tiring, but he kept his position to the fraction
of an inch, a single stride behind his rival, his spikes hugging the
rim closely. Around the corners they came, into the stretch, to a
chorus of cheers and shouts and shrill yells of advice, entreaty and
encouragement. The gong clanged its announcement of the final lap.
Fifteen yards or so behind the two leaders came Milton, fighting
doggedly to keep ahead of a Mount Morris youth but losing gradually. By
this time the track showed tired contestants everywhere. Towne and Tray
were already lapping the rear-guard.
Stride for stride, the green ribbon and the scarlet passed the turns
and reached the backstretch. There was still no sign of a change of
pace, no altering of the steady strides. Now they were half-way through
the final circuit, moving together across the green turf like a single
machine. But suddenly cries leapt from the watchers. Towne had started
his sprint! Already a yard separated the two! And now it was a good
two strides! They were rounding the third corner, heads back, digging
for all they were worth! Tray was falling behind! The spectators in
the stand were on their feet, hands outstretched and beckoning, lungs
roaring forth shouts of triumph or of despair. Into the stretch the
two white-clad figures swept. Surely Tray had pulled up again! He had!
He was running stride for stride with the Mount Morris man! He was
gaining! Why, there was nothing to it but Tray! What a sprint! Two
yards between them now, three――four! And Tray still opening up daylight
and the finish growing nearer and nearer! The stand was emptying, the
audience piling down to crowd the track at the finish line. It was
difficult to see now, but there was a head bobbing up and down a few
yards away, and another――――
“_Track! Track! Keep back there! Give them room, fellows!_”
“_Grafton! Grafton! Grafton!_”
“_Tray! Tray! Tray!_”
“_Come on, Towne! Mount Morris! Mount Morris!_”
“_You can do it! Come on! Come on!_”
Then a veritable babel of sound as a white-clad runner stumbles into
sight at the end of the throng, is caught by ready arms and borne
staggering to the turf. Grafton cheers fill the air. Another runner
subsides on the grass. Cries of “_Track! Track! Let them finish!
Everyone off the track!_” And then Milton, white of face, dragging his
unwilling feet beneath him, fighting for breath, crosses the line a
scant two yards ahead of a Mount Morris youth and plunges forward on
his face. After that they jog in one by one, but no one sees them, for
the race is over and Grafton has won first place and third and added
eight much-needed points to her score!
Dud, separated in the confusion of that rush down from the stand from
his companion, waited to hear the announcement of the time, hoping to
learn that Foster Tray had made a new record for the mile. But four
minutes and fifty-four seconds was not sensational, and so he followed
the crowd to the pole-vault. The broad jumpers had just finished and
Mount Morris had won first place, leaving four points for Grafton,
and the figures stood 46 to 44, the Green-and-White still two points
ahead. The hammer-throw had not yet been heard from, Dud learned, but
Quinn was sure of first in the pole-vault. Dud joined the ranks of the
anxious onlookers and watched while Mount Morris’s talent tried and
failed to equal Jim Quinn’s ten feet and one inch, watched while Hanson
of Grafton struggled for third place in the vault-off between him and
Joy of Mount Morris and grieved when he lost out. And then, while Dud
was figuring and calculating and staring at the unwelcome result which
showed Mount Morris still a point ahead, a wildly leaping junior shot
around the stand bringing an end to suspense.
Grafton had won first and second place in the hammer-throw! Driver had
thrown a hundred and thirty-nine feet and four inches! And Gowen had
done almost as well! And Mount Morris’s best was only――――
But Dud didn’t care what Mount Morris’s best had been! He was scrawling
a big black 8 on his program and shouting to no one in particular:
“What do you know about that? Grafton, 57; Mount Morris, 51! Well,
I guess! Six points to the good! Oh, we’re not so bad, not so bad!
Fifty-seven to fifty-one! What do you know about that?”
No one heard him, I fancy, for there was a great deal of noise about
that time.