CHAPTER XII.
THE CODFISH LOSES HIMSELF.
The team with all its paraphernalia went through to London thatnight, and the next morning took train for Brighton about fifty milessouth on the English Channel, where all were quartered at the GrandHotel on the Esplanade facing the channel. Training quarters wereestablished on the grounds of the Brighton Athletic Club which hadbeen generously offered to the visitors by the Board of Governors.
It was an eager lot of athletes that tumbled out of the tally-ho atthe Club that morning, for the trainers insisted that the practiceshould begin at once, and the men themselves, cooped up as theyhad been for a week, were no less anxious to get to work than thetrainers were to have them.
Several scores of people, attracted to Brighton by the news thatthe Yale and Harvard teams would train there for the week previousto the match with Oxford and Cambridge, were in attendance when theAmericans got into action. "A likely looking lot," was the Englishcomment.
After a light work-out, Armstrong and McGregor were called to thejumping pit.
"Try a few," said Trainer Black, "but make it easy and be careful youdon't twist your ankles. We're badly enough off as it is."
After measuring out the runway and taking half a dozen practiceruns, McGregor made a leap of something over 21 feet on his firsttry. Frank followed, but did not show anything impressive. Again hetried, but whether from the enforced idleness on the steamer or fromphysical condition, again fell far short of the jump he expected tomake.
"You're not getting any lift at all," said Black, coming up at thatmoment. "Shoot high in the air when you strike that take-off."
Frank attempted to follow instructions, but his legs felt heavy anddead. He knew very well without information from the trainer that hefailed to get his height. The more he jumped, the worse he got, butpersisted until Trainer Black said: "That's enough, now. Jog aroundthe track a couple of times and go in. You are off to-day but I guessit will be all right to-morrow."
But the next day, while there was a little improvement in hisdistance, Frank was far behind his American performances. McGregorjumped consistently at 22 feet and a half. The strange ground did notseem to bother him in any way, while with Frank either the straightrunway, the different conditions of air or the week of partialidleness on shipboard had played havoc with his skill. Naturally, hebegan to worry, and this had its effect in keeping him back.
On the third day on English soil the whole team was taken up toLondon to the Queen's Club grounds so that the athletes might have anopportunity to try out the track. It proved to be a faster and bettertrack than the one they were working on at Brighton and everyone waswell pleased with the result of the day's work. Frank had improved alittle on his jumps, but was still inches behind his Harvard mate.Several times he had succeeded in getting a good spring, but failedto hold the distance. It did not make him feel any happier to notethat the English writers, after watching the performances of the twoAmerican jumpers, had counted them out of the contest entirely.
"Vare," wrote one sporting critic, "will have no trouble in winningthe broad jump for the American representatives are not in his class.It is unfortunate that their best jumper was unable to come acrossthe water because of an accident in practice a few days before theAmericans were to sail. But even with Hotchkiss, the injured Yaleman, at his best he could not expect to measure up to the greatOxford jumper who has been doing 23 feet and over, consistently inpractice, and has never yet been extended to his full limit to win inany event he has entered. With the broad jump a foregone conclusionfor the Oxford-Cambridge team, the chances seem to favor the Englishathletes to carry off the meet."
Frank laid down the paper. "So, they've written us off, have they?Perhaps we may fool them yet," and he ground his teeth together,resolving that if he were beaten out it would not be because he didnot try. But the next day's practice on the Brighton track yieldedno better results. As he was walking slowly down the runway withfeelings of disgust at his poor showing, he was accosted by a tallstranger whom he had seen talking with the captain a few minutesbefore.
"Do you mind if I give you a word of advice?" said the newcomer.
"Certainly not. If you can show me how to get out about a footfurther, I'll be the happiest jumper in the United Kingdom."
The stranger smiled. "You are too anxious about this jumpingbusiness," he said, "and you're working too hard at it. You haveplenty of speed and a good spring, but you don't get high enough atthe take-off. Supposing we try a little experiment."
"I'll try anything," said Frank, eagerly.
"I used to jump a little myself," said the stranger, "and my troubleat first was very like what yours is now. I couldn't get up. So Itried an experiment which I'm going to try on you now." Steppingto the side of the track he picked up a high hurdle and placed itabout four feet behind the jumping-block, in the pit itself. "Now,"he continued, "I want you to clear the top of that hurdle by sixinches or more. At your highest point of flight bring your shouldersand arms well forward, so you will hold all your distance when youstrike. Try it."
Frank went back the full length of the runway, started at an easylope and gathering full speed fifty feet from the end of his runstruck the block squarely, and sprang high into the air. He had thefeeling that it was a good jump but was not prepared for what themeasuring tape showed--22 feet, 8 inches.
"That's better," said the tall stranger. "But I want you to go evenhigher than that. Clear the hurdle by a foot or more if you can. Getyour greatest speed right at the take-off and _think_ high as well asgo high."
Again Frank rushed down the runway and leaped with all his power,clearing the hurdle by a foot or more. By this time half a dozen ofthe members of the team were gathered by the jumping pit. Recognizinga good jump, one of them seized the tape and measured:
"Twenty-three feet, one-half inch," he sang out. "Well, maybe we havea chance for that jump yet. Good boy, Armstrong."
Twice more the stranger sent Frank down the runway and each time thejumper rose to expectations. On the last jump the tape showed 23feet, 1? inches.
"Now, we'll take the hurdle away, but you must _think_ it is there,"continued the coach. "Have it in your mind as you come up to theblock that you are going away above the imaginary mark. Jumping is amatter of brains as much as of legs. Try it without the hurdle."
This time Frank almost equaled his former jump, and as the figureswere announced, his teammates crowded around him, congratulating him.
"That's the stuff, Armstrong," said Trainer Black. "You may throw ascare into these Englishmen if you keep up that gait."
"Who is that man coaching me?" inquired Frank, a little later.
"That, didn't you know? That's Princewell, an intercollegiatechampion of ours a few years back, one of the best in the business inhis day."
"He certainly knew what was the matter with me," said Frank, almostbeside himself with happiness. "I'd give a leg to beat Vare."
"I don't expect that," said Black, "because Vare is a great jumper,one of the best in Great Britain. If you give him a good run for hismoney you will have done something we will all be proud of. We canwin without the broad jump if our calculations are right."
But alas for Frank's high hopes, the next day saw him below 23 feetagain, and work as he might, he fell back steadily. Without theimpetus given by Princewell, who had gone to London, he could not getwithin six inches of his best marks of the day before. Black finallyordered him to the clubhouse. "I don't want you to put on jumpingshoes again before Saturday." Saturday was the day of the games.
"But I need the practice," Frank remonstrated, "I'm just getting theknack."
"Forget it," said the trainer, "and do as I tell you. I'll take therisk. You mustn't jump again before you go into your event. And I'dadvise you to keep off your feet as much as you can. Rest, rest, man.That's the best thing you can do just now."
Frank turned away heartbroken. "If I could only keep at it, I'd getthe trick back. I had it yesterday and I've lo
st it to-day."
"Keep off my feet," grumbled Frank that night to Gleason. "Rest andkeep off my feet. I wonder if he intends to have me keep my bed."
"O, you're too nervous, that's all. A little country air would begood for you. Say, by Jove, I've got an idea, rest, recreation, offyour feet, on the job and all that."
"Open up, my son."
"It's this. Let's hire a motor and see some of this blooming country.I don't suppose they object to your exercising your eyes."
"I'm with you if the captain hasn't any objection. We've beensticking pretty closely around here."
"It's a monumental idea and worthy of a great brain like mine."
The captain had no objection and was indeed glad of it since he feltit would take Frank's attention from the coming games.
"And how about the motor? I'm not a bloated bondholder like you, butI'll go my halves."
"Oh, run away. I've been aching to find an excuse to spend some moneyround here. I know where I can get a little pippin of a machine forten shillings the hour. Ten shillings are $2.50 our money and cheapwhen it includes a dinky little chauffeur with a uniform. Watch meproduce!" And away the Codfish dashed down the street. In twentyminutes he was back with a snappy little, high-powered runaboutpainted a flaming red color. "Couldn't get a blue one," he apologized.
Frank hopped in alongside the driver, and the Codfish perched behindin the rumble seat. For two hours Frank forgot entirely about theYale-Harvard-Oxford-Cambridge track meet, and his part in it. Andthose who have traveled in the beautiful lanes and highways of Sussexwill understand his absorption. Again in the cool of the afternoonGleason appeared for another "personally conducted" tour, thistime to the west of Brighton, along the shore road. Eye-tired fromwatching the moving panorama of country and town, Frank Armstrongslept, free from the regular nightmare of broad-jumping competitionin which he never could quite reach his best.
The great day of the contest came around at last and found theAmerican athletes pitched to a high degree of excitement. A finaltrial of the Queen's Club track had given some very satisfactoryperformances, which more than hinted at an American victory. Burrows,the Harvard sprinter, had run the hundred in nine and four-fifthsseconds, and seemed sure of not only this event but of the twohundred and twenty as well. With these two secure, the Americanathletes had a clear lead in the race for victory.
"This is the great day, boys," announced Trainer Black at thebreakfast table. "Train leaves for London at 10:30. Games at twoo'clock. Put all the stuff you need in your suit cases. They will goup on the train with us."
"Do we lunch in London?" asked someone.
"No, we have a bite on the train which gets to London at a littlebefore twelve. It's a half-hour's ride in taxis from the station tothe Queen's Club grounds. We won't get there much before half pasttwelve or a quarter to one. That'll give us plenty of time to dressand be ready for the Johnny Bulls by two o'clock."
Frank finished his packing quickly, sent his suit case down to thehotel lobby, and began to fidget around. "I'm as nervous as a cat,"he said to himself. "If they had only let me keep on working I'd havebeen a lot better off, but this waiting, waiting bothers me to death."
"Oh, there, you little jumping jack," came the hail from the street,"come and take a ride, guaranteed last appearance before breaking theworld's record."
"Can't," said Frank. "Train leaves in less than two hours. Have youpacked up?"
"Packed up, no. The valet will do that. Who wants to pack suit casesa morning like this? Come on, you short-skate, come on and forgetQueen's Club."
"I'll go you for an hour," said Frank, "but that's the limit. I don'twant to take any chances with a busted tire five miles from nowhere."
"This machine is guaranteed bust-proof. You can trust the oldreliable. It is even fool-proof."
"I'd need that assurance with you around."
"And you're coming?"
"Yes, but only for an hour."
"Don't worry, I'll have you back, hope to die if I don't."
Away shot the little runabout on the Eastbourne road. As before, thechauffeur acted as guide and pointed out various objects of interestas they spun along the smooth road. "Just down there to the eastabout twenty miles the way we're heading is Hastings."
"That's where William the Conqueror had his little scrap one day somemoons ago, isn't it?" inquired the Codfish.
"Yes, sir, he fought a bit of a fight there, and just over to theleft there is the Duke of Buccleuch's estate. And down there in thefield where you see that house in the trees I was born meself, sir."
"Good for you," said the Codfish, "fine place to be born, nice openspaces; a very good piece of judgment. And the old folks still livedown on the old New Hampshire farm?"
"Yes, sir, they are living there now. I say, would you mind stoppingat the door, sir? My mother's been ailing, and I'd like to see her aminute."
"Dutiful and kind-hearted son, we'll be happy to stop for you. Betterstill, you give me the steering wheel and we'll drive on for a mileor two and pick you up on the way back."
"Can you drive?" asked the chauffeur dubiously.
"Can I drive? Can a duck float? I've driven a six-sixty Pierce Arrowthrough the White Mountains, but you wouldn't know what that means.Let's see," said the irrepressible Codfish, as he slipped into thedriver's seat just vacated by the chauffeur and worked the shiftlever as he spoke: "First speed inside ahead, second speed outsideahead, high, outside back. Reverse, inside back. I've got you, Steve.We'll be back here in fifteen minutes. Please be waiting at thechurch for we haven't too many spare minutes this morning."
"Be careful, sir," called the chauffeur, "it's a heavy penaltydriving without a license."
"Same thing in our country, but we're hard to catch," the Codfishshouted back over his shoulder as, with motor speeding up, he droppedinto high gear and fled up the road like a red shadow.
"This is what we should have done long before this," quoth Gleason,"a chauffeur is a clog on conversation."
"Yes, but he's handy to have along under certain conditions."
The boys drove along in silence for five minutes, when Frank, withhis mind on train time, said: "Better turn now, old man. We've beenout nearly thirty minutes, and thirty more makes an hour, my timelimit."
"You're great on mathematics. Let's go up this road through thevillage there to our right and out back on the main road, pick up thegent who went to visit the old folks, and then I'll drop you in dearold Brighton in some few minutes. But first let us explore a little."
"I'd rather we explored some other time," Frank remonstrated.
But the Codfish was willful. He found a road leading to the left,circled the village and came back again to a highway. "Now, let'ssee, where did we leave that chap?" he mused. "Right along here someplace by the willows, wasn't it?"
Driving slowly, the boys scanned the roadside for their chauffeur,but no sight of him could they discover. "Well, it certainly washere somewhere, and if he hasn't the gumption to come back as peragreement, he can stay behind, eh, what?"
"Gleason, this doesn't look like the road we came on," said Frank, inalarm.
"Well, it's a good road, isn't it?"
"But no road is good unless it leads to Brighton. Remember yourpromise. That train leaves at ten-thirty and it is five minutes often now. And, moreover, we're lost."
"Lost, your eye! How can we be lost when I'm at the helm?" But,nevertheless, the puzzled look on the Codfish's face continued togrow deeper as the minutes passed away and nothing was seen of thechauffeur. "I say," he called to a passing farmer, "can you tell meif this is the road to Brighton?"
"Naw. Second turn to the right and then keep straight ahead."
"How far from here?"
"'Bout five mile."
"The country is saved. Now see the dust fly. Twenty minutes to dofive miles. Oh, it's a cinch. That chauffeur can walk home. I'llsettle."
Fifteen minutes later the Codfish drew up at the outskirts of a smallvillage. "Is this t
he way to Brighton?" he inquired of a passer-by.
"This _is_ Breyting," with an accent on the "is."
"What?" almost yelled the driver of the red car.
"This _is_ Breyting, I tell you."
"How do you spell it?"
"B-r-e-y-t-i-n-g, Breyting."
"Oh, Lord, we want B-r-i-g-h-t-o-n, Brighton, down by the sea, whereall the piers and pebbles are."
"Oh, why didn't you say so at first? Take the road to the left downabout half a mile. It'll bring you down to the far end of the streetthat runs along the water."
"How far is it?" asked Frank in a despairing voice.
"'Bout twelve or thirteen miles."
"And fifteen minutes to do it in. This is awful!"
"Cheer up, cheer up," said the driver, making a great show ofconfidence which he didn't in the least feel. "We may do it yet."Opening the throttle the car fairly leaped along the road. "It'sexceeding the speed limit, but in a good cause," said the Codfish."Lord, I hope the tires stand up."
He had hardly spoken the word when the right front shoe gave waywith a loud bang. The car careened to the right sharply, crossed theshallow ditch with a lurch that nearly threw the boys out of theirseats, and, finally, under control again, was steered back on to theroad to fetch up with a violent jerk when the emergency brake wasdriven down hard.
Frank Armstrong at College Page 12