THE TRACK MEET
“Brace up and don’t pull such a long face, Phil,” Sydney was saying in
their room after breakfast the next morning.
“You are the boast of the ship, and the captain will not be severe with
you. You disobeyed orders, of course, but so did Admiral Nelson at the
battle of the Nile, and yet he was promoted for his action because he
‘made good’----”
“Yes, but I didn’t ‘make good.’ Lazar ‘made good’ for me and he took
pains to tell me so last night. I would rather have drowned than listen
to his scornful denunciation of my conduct,” answered Phil sadly.
“You are entirely too sensitive,” answered Sydney in a disgusted voice.
“If I had been in your place last night I’d have been proud of myself,
and Lazar’s scorn would be as water on a duck’s back. Every one is
for you, even Mr. Penfield, the executive officer. I hear he said at
the wardroom mess-table that he was of the opinion that you should be
publicly commended by the secretary of the navy.”
Phil blushed with pleasure at his friend’s impetuous words.
“Did he, though?” he said, brightly; then his face clouded as his eyes
fell on his empty sword rack.
“The humiliation of the arrest is what hurts,” he added. “When the
captain sent for my sword I felt like a veritable traitor.”
“There you are, sentiment again,” cried Sydney. “The sword is merely
a matter of form. You will have it again in a jiffy. I’m coming back
as soon as we anchor,” he added, buckling on his sword and hurriedly
leaving the room as the bugle call sounded, and the boatswain’s mates’
hoarse voices were heard calling:
“Bring ship to an anchor!”
Throwing himself into his chair, Phil turned over in his mind the
various incidents that had led to his arrest. How could he answer
Lazar’s accusations? His only manly course was to acknowledge his guilt
and hope for the captain’s clemency. Down in his heart he knew he
would do the same again. It was cruel to stand by and see a man perish
without raising a hand. Yet Lazar’s judgment had been sound. For the
benefit of many it were better to allow one to drown.
Alone in his room he followed the movements of the ship by the noises
about him. As the vibrations of the propellers lessened, he knew that
the vessel was near the anchored fleet and had slowed her engines.
Shortly, he heard the rattle of chain as the anchor was dropped
overboard.
“Sir, the captain wishes to see Mr. Perry in the cabin,” announced the
orderly five minutes later.
Entering the cabin, Phil removed his cap and stood with military
exactness before his commanding officer.
“Take a seat, Mr. Perry,” said the captain, not unkindly.
A few moments elapsed, then Lazar entered, and at a motion from the
captain occupied a chair next to Phil.
Phil’s heart beat fast. The solemnity of the occasion awed him. His
hopes were ready to sink within him as he waited for the captain’s
decision.
“Gentlemen,” the captain began, weighing his words, “Mr. Perry, in
deliberately disobeying the order of his senior officer, helped to
save an unfortunate man from certain death;” the captain hesitated and
shifted his gaze to Lazar. “If it had not been for the masterful manner
in which the officer of the deck, Mr. Lazar, handled the ship, placing
her between the helpless boat and the force of the seas, eight more men
would have been sacrificed.” Then turning to Phil and addressing him
directly: “It was Mr. Lazar’s high sense of duty that compelled him to
report your disobedience. What have you to say, sir?”
Phil was silent. The captain thrummed on the table, as if impatient for
an answer. Lazar fidgeted uneasily in his chair, no doubt wondering
what defense the boy would advance.
“I have nothing to say, sir,” began Phil in a low voice. “I committed
a grave error, sir. I have steered life-boats before, but the sea was
greater than I realized.” He stopped and glanced up in embarrassment
at the captain. “I am afraid, sir, I would do the same again, sir.”
“Well spoken, lad,” cried the captain delightedly. He had prepared
himself for an excuse, so this straightforward acknowledgment was
extremely gratifying to the blunt sailor.
“Bless you, boy, you gave me a few new white hairs as I watched your
boat. I never thought to see any of that crew again, but all’s well
that ends well, eh, Lazar?” he asked, turning suddenly on the ensign.
“I feel I have done my duty, sir; the verdict rests with you,” answered
he, in a strained voice, in which Phil thought he read disappointment.
The captain became grave, apparently noting the attitude of the
claimant. “That is all, Mr. Lazar,” he said in a changed voice. “You
may withdraw.”
As the door closed on the ensign, the captain’s face again assumed a
kindly expression.
“Mr. Perry, I cannot find heart to punish you for this,” he spoke
earnestly. “You were too impulsive and it might have turned out
disastrously, nevertheless it became you well. You have shown that you
are made of the right stuff; now let me see you fashion it into the
officer that you are capable of becoming.” Reaching out his hand he
took up Phil’s sword, and as he returned it to him, said:
“Remember, obedience is your first duty.”
“What did I tell you?” Sydney cried, shaking Phil’s hand a moment
later, as he returned with his sword. Then in an anxious voice: “I
don’t like Lazar’s attitude. He came out of the cabin a minute ago
looking like a thunder-cloud. He apparently was not pleased at the
captain’s decision.”
“He may dislike me,” Phil answered charitably, as they entered their
own room, “but I believe so far he has treated me as he would have any
of us midshipmen.”
The life-boat incident raised Phil to a high place in the opinions of
most officers of the ship, and the men were all devoted to him. He was
their favorite midshipman after that.
This was the first time the eight big battle-ships of the Atlantic
fleet had been together since their winter rendezvous at Guantanamo,
Cuba, and good-natured rivalry between the ships in tests of strength
and physical prowess of their crews ran high. The admiral of the fleet,
a great believer in encouraging these pastimes, had given orders for a
track meet to be held on shore, and all hands turned to organize their
forces to win the pennant to be given to the ship that showed herself
capable of producing the cleverest athletes.
“I have been pressed into service to get the entries from our ship for
the meet,” Marshall announced at the mess-table that evening. “It is
to take place next Saturday. We need all the good men we can get. We
certainly have a prize in Lazar; he has entered for all the short runs
up to the 440-yards. He held all the Annapolis records for them when he
was there, and he keeps himself in fine condition.”
Phil had brightened up at the prospects for a day of field sports, and
held his hand out gladly for the paper to put down his name, but when
Lazar’s name passed Marshall’s lips, his face clouded and he withdrew
his hand quickly.
“Syd, you should do something in the jumping line,” said Phil in a
voice of feigned indifference. “I shan’t enter; I’m not in form for
running.”
“Are you crazy, man?” Sydney cried. Then turning to Marshall: “He made
a clean sweep last year of the short runs at Annapolis, lowered one
record and equaled the others. Don’t listen to him, he is only modest;
put him down for all up to the 440.”
“No, no,” cried Phil earnestly. “I’m not going to enter, so that ends
it.”
“If you have no more ship’s spirit than that, you can go hang,” replied
Marshall, much nettled at Phil’s stubbornness.
Sydney allowed his name to be written on the entry sheet for several
events, but the sheet went back to Lieutenant-Commander Penfield, the
executive officer, without Phil’s name for a single event.
“What’s the matter with you, Phil?” demanded Sydney, in their room
after dinner. “Why should you refuse when you know you are in excellent
condition and could win the majority of your races? Is it because Lazar
has entered?”
“Yes, if you must know,” he replied in a tone of finality. “I’d sooner
stay away and retain my peace of mind. Our relations are strained
enough already. I have no wish to incur his further enmity. We would
hotly contest each event, and if I won, his treatment of me would not
be improved.”
Sydney’s further persuasions fell on barren soil. Phil held to his
point and would not be moved.
Great preparations were being made for the coming struggle. Enthusiasm
waxed high in the fleet, and all longed for the day to arrive when each
could test his prowess.
The day of the meet finally came; the sun shone from a cloudless pure
sky; the cool sea breeze swept over the athletic grounds, invigorating
the hundreds of sailor athletes with its salty crispness. This was
an event new in the annals of the navy, and had aroused intense
interest, so when the lads arrived with their party of contestants
from the “Connecticut,” they found an audience had collected from the
surrounding country. The grand stands, erected by the carpenters of the
ships of the fleet, were packed to overflowing, while the field, which
had been turned into an arena for the many contests, was gay with the
uniformed sailormen who had come to cheer their champions.
On a bulletin-board at the entrance to the grounds the lists of those
to compete in the several events was posted.
So much pressure had been brought to bear upon Phil that he had finally
been prevailed upon to enter the short runs. The executive officer
and even the captain had upbraided him so severely for what they
thought was his lack of ship’s spirit, that he had, much against his
inclinations, allowed his name to be put on the list before it was sent
to the flag-ship.
Our two boys stopped to read the names of the competitors. Many of
those entering were strangers, but an occasional name would evoke a
remark of surprise or pleasure from one or the other of the readers.
Lazar’s name was in but one list, that for the 100-yard run, and Phil
wondered whether the latter had withdrawn because he had entered. The
next minute Marshall came rushing up to him.
“Lazar is running only in the 100-yard. I suppose you noticed his name
is not in the others. I have just seen him and he seems confident of
being able to win the race. Now, if you can win the others and run
second in this short dash, we shall win the pennant hands down.”
Phil immediately bristled.
“Did he say I might run second?” he asked quickly.
Marshall hesitated.
“You know what I mean, Perry,” he answered knowingly; “after your other
races you can hardly expect to beat Lazar, but if you try for second,
you can get it. Don’t you see?”
“Is that his suggestion?” Phil asked, his anger rising.
“To be frank with you, yes, it is,” confessed Marshall. “He found that
the three races were being run too close together, so he scratched
in the others and thinks he is sure for the shorter run. It’s all
perfectly square.”
“H’m, maybe so,” Phil answered shortly, as he turned toward the
dressing-tent to be ready for the first race in which he was entered.
“‘Second,’ eh?” he soliloquized. “I’ll give him the race of his life
for first.”
The races were run amid great enthusiasm as the sailors saw the
possibility for the winner gradually narrow down until the coveted
pennant lay between but two ships, the “Connecticut” and the
“Minnesota.”
“You have just a half hour to rest up before the first heat of the big
race,” said Sydney, as he and Phil walked toward the hospital tent
after the 440-yard run.
Phil felt the strain of his two races. He had won the 220-yards by a
narrow margin, but had been cleverly outstripped in the longer race by
a sailorman from the “Minnesota.”
Sydney had acquitted himself with credit; he had taken second place in
two of the jumping contests.
“You seem to be a hot favorite for the 100-yards, Mr. Perry,” said the
doctor, with a smile of admiration at the well-knit figure before him,
as he directed his nurses to rub the strained muscles to keep them in
shape for the final contest. “I hear the pennant lies between your ship
and the ‘Minnesota.’”
Marshall came into the tent, and unabashed at the rebuke administered
by Phil earlier in the day, began his argument anew:
“I know you don’t like Lazar any too well,” he said in an undertone,
“and because he suggested this, you immediately became angry, but let
me show you a perfectly fair way of doing it, without blocking anybody.
Say Lazar can win, then leaving yourself out of the count, some one
will run second. Now don’t try to catch Lazar, but keep ahead of the
man who threatens him and takes second place. If you overexert yourself
to pass Lazar you may give out and be beaten by two or three men. That
is surely fair in a contest between ships.”
“But suppose I feel confident I can beat Lazar and win,” answered Phil
dryly.
“That’s too much to expect, Perry,” said he earnestly. “After running
as you have it’s only natural that you cannot be in as good condition
as if you hadn’t run, and we must take both first and second place in
this last race to be sure of beating the ‘Minnesota.’ She leads us now
by nearly ten points. Can’t you do this for your ship?”
Phil was silent. He believed the proposition as far as Marshall was
concerned was prompted solely by a desire to see his ship win, but as
coming from Lazar it was a slur on his manliness. The latter had hinted
at blocking off the fast runners, pocketing them by keeping ahead and
preventing their passing him, thus insuring a win for Lazar if he
succeeded in getting off quickly, which was his greatest asset; he was
the quickest starter Phil had ever seen. But even in the form outlined
by Marshall, although it might not be considered unfair, yet it was
unsportsmanlike and savored of jockeying.
“I am sorry I can’t see it your way, old man,” he answered finally in
not an unkind voice; then the indignation he felt for Lazar blazed from
his eyes.
“You may tell Mr. Lazar I shall run to win.”
“Bully for you, Phil,” cried Sydney delightedly. He had listened
intently in silence, and was afraid he might be influenced by the
plausible arguments of his tempter. “I’d be willing to have the ship
lose to see you beat him.”
The preliminary heats were run amid great enthusiasm.
Lazar and Phil, with eight others, found themselves at the starting
line for the final test.
Phil, in spite of the tax on his strength in his hard fought races,
never felt in better trim. The earlier races assured him that his
muscles had not deteriorated. As he stood with his body thrown forward,
hands on the ground in front of him, he vibrated like a highly tempered
spring. Every muscle was held in the leash, ready to be loosed by
his will at the discharge of the pistol. He wished that he might be
transformed into a knight of older times, horsed and about to “enter
the lists” with his antagonist. How he would delight to see Lazar’s
pride unhorsed beneath his charger’s feet.
With these mad thoughts coursing through his brain he heard, as if from
far away, the starter’s voice:
“Are you ready?”
“On your mark!”
Then a pause, followed by a loud report.
As if shot from a catapult, the lithe figures darted forward--breath
held tightly, every face set with dogged determination.
Phil saw Lazar dart two yards ahead of every competitor. It was an
enormous handicap in his favor, for it precluded a chance of being
pocketed either by accident or design.
Phil strained his muscles to their utmost in an endeavor to free
himself from the mass of threatening, surging runners. If each ran
inside his chalk line all would be well, but on the sandy soil marks
were indistinct. He held his breath a prisoner. His old trainer at
Annapolis had taught him the trick. “A full breath at ‘on your mark’
and another thirty yards from the finish. It’s all the air you need,”
were the words repeating themselves in his mind. His exertions were
crowned by finding himself within a yard of Lazar. The next danger
thundered three yards behind him.
Swiftly they drew toward the finish.
Lazar, running in his chalked lane, edged over inch by inch until he
was directly in Phil’s path. The man behind had now drawn up so close
to Phil that he could feel his hot breath in his ear. He knew him for
the little sailor who had beaten him in the 440-yard run. Phil was now
running on the left edge of the course. The runner behind him was in
the line that had been Lazar’s. If Phil were not to be pocketed he must
pass Lazar to his right and might thereby interfere with and perhaps
foul the plucky little runner from the “Minnesota.” Phil knew that if
the latter ran first or second the pennant would go to the sailor’s
ship. In all its hideousness Lazar’s trick flashed before Phil’s eyes.
Lazar would make him pocket the sailor or else be beaten by both men.
With the eye of a runner he judged the time for his full breath and
final spurt had come.
Slowly he drew up abreast of Lazar; the third man was close at
his elbow. He put forth his full power. To himself his muscles
felt chained. He seemed fairly to crawl toward the finish. But the
spectators saw him draw surely up to Lazar--then forge ahead. Phil
heard a pistol shot, and gave himself into the grasp of a group of
sailormen. He knew none of them, but they all wore “Connecticut” on
their caps, and their faces were alight with pride and satisfaction.
“Well done, Mr. Perry,” they shouted.
He felt himself raised on a mountain of sturdy shoulders and heard the
triumphant shouts of victory.
Then his eyes fell on the face of Lazar, likewise honored by his
delighted men. Amid the happy faces below him that of the older officer
showed only anger and bitter mortification.