CHAPTER VII
A BATTLE ROYAL
It was four o'clock on a bright, warm afternoon in early May. Mr.Fenton, walking briskly toward the athletic field, stopped for amoment at the entrance, to gaze at the scene before him. In theball-field, beyond the grandstand, the nine was playing a practicegame against the subs. The tennis courts were filled, and the trackand field men were putting the finishing touches to their afternoon'swork. Ned Brewster, captain of the track team, was standing by theside of the high-jump path, and Mr. Fenton, as he crossed the field,stopped for a moment to talk with him. "Well, Ned," he queried, "whatare our prospects? Will we draw first blood in the track meet nextweek, or will Ellis' desertion cost us the games?"
Brewster hesitated. "I don't really know, sir," he said at last. "Aweek ago, I should have said that everything looked fine, but now I'mnot so sure. You see, Greenough's injury makes a big difference. Ithink he would have been certain of the hundred, and would have takensecond in the two twenty, besides, but pulling that tendon puts himout of everything. The doctor says he can't possibly go into the meet.
"And then there's Dick Randall--I was never more disappointed in afellow in my life. A fortnight ago, he was coming fast--his friendMcDonald was simply doing wonders with him. Why, one Saturdayafternoon I went over there with Dick, and he was certainly in greatform. I measured everything myself, or really I could hardly havebelieved it. He did five seven in the high, and he cleared the bar byan inch and a half at that. He did twenty feet ten and a half in thebroad, on his first try, and McDonald told him not to jump any more--that that was good enough. And then he took his six tries with theshot, and did thirty-eight three. McDonald told me that day that if hecould bring Dick up a little in the hammer, and if he'd get a littlefaster at the hundred and the hurdles, that he'd give Ellis andJohnson the fight of their lives in the Pentathlon. And then, justwhen all he needed was a little improvement, instead of going ahead,he started to go back, and he's been growing steadily worse eversince. It doesn't seem to be his fault, you know; he feels moredisappointed about it than any one. He never sports at all, and he'sthe most conscientious worker on the squad. But there's somethingwrong. He isn't nearly so good as he was two weeks ago. You just watchhim now. The bar is only five feet four."
Mr. Fenton looked on attentively, as Randall prepared to jump. Thereseemed to be a nervous hesitancy about his style. He started twice onhis run before he could seem to catch step correctly, and even then,he ran more slowly than usual, as if he lacked confidence in himself,and rose awkwardly at the bar, without much of his former spring. Yeteven with these faults, the attempt was none the less a good one. Hisbody was higher than the stick, and he seemed, indeed, just on thepoint of clearing it in safety; but the necessary momentum waslacking, and despite his efforts, he fell heavily on the bar, knockingit off for the third successive time. He walked dejectedly out of thepit, and stood gazing at the uprights with wrinkled brow, as ifstriving to figure out the reason for his failure. Mr. Fenton walkedover to him. "That was a good try, Randall," he said cheerfully. "Alittle more speed, and you would have had it. How are you feelingthese days? Pretty well?"
Dick paused a moment before answering. "Well, to tell the truth, sir,"he said at last, "I don't know what's got into me lately. I was doingquite well, two weeks ago, but now I'm no good at all. My weight isall right, and I feel all right, but I don't seem to have any gingerabout me. Why, a month back I should have laughed at five feet four; Ishould have called that just a practice jump; and now today I try myhardest, and miss it three times running. And I've gone back in thebroad jump--I can't do twenty feet now--and I'm not up to standardwith the shot, either. The hammer is the only thing I've improvedwith, and I was so bad with that I couldn't very well have grownworse. Taking everything together, I'm really doing about as badly asa fellow could; and I don't see what the trouble is. I never practisedso hard; I never thought so much about my events; I'm reallydiscouraged."
Mr. Fenton glanced him over critically, from head to foot. He seemedworried and anxious, and while he appeared to be well up in weight,and while his muscular development was better than ever, his color wasnone too good, and his face looked somewhat drawn. Mr. Fenton gave alittle nod, like a doctor who diagnoses a patient's condition. "Well,you look pretty well," he said, "but of course you've been doing quitea lot of work. I should say, in the trainers' language, that you werea little 'fine.' Why don't you take a rest, a complete rest, from nowuntil the day of the games?"
Dick shook his head, without intending it, a little impatiently. "Oh,I couldn't, Mr. Fenton," he answered. "There's so much to learn yet,if I go into the Pentathlon. There's a knack I'm trying to work out inthe broad jump, and that confounded hammer does bother me so. I thinkand think about it, and finally I imagine I've got the idea, and thenI go out the next day and practise, and find I'm worse than ever. Why,one night, I even dreamed about it. I thought I threw it two hundredand fifty feet, and broke the world's record. Oh, but it felt fine. Iwas taking three turns, and spinning around like a top, and when I letit go, it went sailing off as high as the roof of a house. So the nextmorning I tried to remember how I stood in my dream, and how I swungthe hammer, and everything, and then I went out in the afternoon andtried to put it all into practice and what do you suppose? I fouledabout a mile, and got all tangled up in my feet, and fell down, andpretty nearly broke my neck; so I've lost all faith in dreams."
Mr. Fenton smiled. "I don't blame you," he answered, then added, "Howhave you been sleeping this last week or two, Randall? As well as whenyou came here first?"
Dick hesitated; then a little unwillingly replied, "Why, I haven'tbeen sleeping so awfully well. It seems to take me a long time to getto sleep, to start with, and then I usually have some crazy nightmareor other about athletics, and then I wake up with a jump about threeor four in the morning, and can't get to sleep again. But I feel allright, just the same. I'm not sick, sir."
Mr. Fenton laughed. "No, you look fairly rugged to me," he answered;"but take a rest from now on, Randall. Don't do any more workto-night; go in and get your rub; and forget all about athletics for awhile."
Dick nodded, picked up his sweater, and jogged off across the field.The master walked back to where Brewster was standing. "Well, Ned,there's no mystery about your Pentathlon man," he said, "it's as clearas day. He's going 'stale,' as the trainers say; he's been doing toomuch work. I don't mean too much for his health. That's all right, orthe doctor would have notified me. But Randall's a fellow with nerves,in spite of his strength. And he's lost just enough energy, with allthe work he's been doing, to take the edge off his speed and hisspring. You must tell him to quit, right where he is; to lock up hisspikes and his athletic clothes; and not to come near the track againuntil the day of the games. If he will do that, you will have himready for the meet, in as good shape as he ever was in his life. Ifeel sure of it."
That evening Brewster went over the whole situation with Dick, andgave him his orders, to be carried out to the very letter. Dickpromised to obey, and yet to keep from worrying was no easy task. Thewhole school could talk of nothing but the coming games. Every one wasgoing around, with paper and pencil, figuring the final distributionof the points. There were twelve events altogether; first placecounted five, second two, and third one; a total of ninety-six. Schoolspirit ran high, and no one figured in any other way except to giveFenton the victory. Forty points was the favorite figure, and aboutthirty each for Hopevale and Clinton. It was an interesting, if ratherunprofitable employment. And for Dick to keep out of the prevailingexcitement was next to impossible, especially when his schoolmateswould say, "We've got you figured for second in the high, Dick," or"Do you think you can get third in the broad?"
Again, the program of resting, and keeping away from the field,worried him more than anything else. Accustomed as he was to his dailyexercise, his muscles, after the first day's lay-off, began tostiffen, and lacking the experience to know that
this was somethingwhich would disappear with his rub-down, and his first trial jump inthe competition, Dick fretted over it as if it had been some seriousmuscle strain. Yet somehow, the week went by, and the day of the gamescame at last.
It was a perfect afternoon, just pleasantly warm and still, with nowind to trouble the distance runners on either stretch. The games werescheduled for two o'clock. By one, the Clinton athletes had arrived;shortly afterward, the Hopevale team put in an appearance; and byhalf-past one the grandstand and the bleachers were filled, and theboys were beginning to limber up on the track. Dave Ellis, with theblue "H" of Hopevale on his chest, seemed in nowise embarrassed atthus revisiting his old quarters, but came out to practise with therest, and put the shot well over thirty-eight feet in a preliminarytry. Shortly afterward, Dick had his first glimpse of Johnson, themainstay of the Clinton team. He was a good-looking, pleasant-facedboy, who went about his "warming-up" so quietly and unobtrusively thatone would scarcely have selected him, at first, for an athlete ofprominence. Yet Dick, watching the play of his long, smooth muscles,and noting how easily and springily he moved up and down the track,knew that he was looking at a first-class man.
Promptly, at five minutes before two, the clerk of the course camehurrying across the field. "All out for the hundred," he called,"hundred yards, last call. All out for the hundred." The games hadbegun at last.
Dick took his seat on the balcony of the dressing-room, and gazed outat the animated scene. All at once it occurred to him that if he wereonly a spectator, and not a contestant, he should be thoroughlyenjoying the whole affair. It was an inspiriting sight; the levelgreen of the field, the darker oval of the track, the grandstand,bright with color; and now, walking slowly over toward the start ofthe hundred, the six contestants, two from each team, each bound to dohis utmost to score for his school. He could distinguish SteveLindsay; the tall figure of Harris of Clinton, the favorite,conspicuous in his striped jersey of red and black; and the figures ofthe two Hopevale men, of whom little was known, with the light blue"H. A. A." on their shirts. There was the usual warming-up, a word ortwo of caution from the starter, and then his whistle blew loud andshrill. There came an answering wave of a handkerchief from the spotwhere the judges and timers stood grouped around the tape.
In the hush that followed, Dick could hear the starter's voice soundsharp and clear across the field. "On your marks!" The six figurescrouched. "Get set!" They bent forward, tense, expectant. And then apuff of smoke from the starter's upraised pistol--"Bang!" and theywere off, to a perfect start. Dick's hands clenched; his eyes strainedto distinguish the entries from his school. For a moment the crowd wassilent, and then, as the first thirty or forty yards were covered, andthe runners began to separate and draw apart, there arose a tumult ofshouts and cheers, above it all the cries from Fenton, "Lindsay!Lindsay! Lindsay!" It was true enough. Lindsay was ahead, a foot ortwo in front of Adams of Hopevale, with Harris several yards behind.At fifty yards it was the same--and at sixty--and then all at onceHarris seemed to settle to his stride. He drew up on the leaders witha rush, at eighty yards was on even terms, and then, forging steadilyahead, crossed the line a safe winner, with Lindsay just beating outAdams for second place. In a moment, Dick could hear the scorer'sstentorian tones echoing over the field. "Hundred yards dash--won byHarris of Clinton; Lindsay of Fenton, second; Adams of Hopevale,third; time, ten and two-fifths seconds." And then, on the big scoreboard at the end of the field, the huge figures were hoisted that allmight see.
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
5 2 1
With the cheers of the Clinton delegation still ringing out on theair, the runners came jogging back to the dressing-rooms, and the nextevent--the hundred and twenty yards high hurdles--was called. Alreadythe men employed on the field were setting out the obstacles on thetrack. There were but four entries, for Barker and Jones, the Hopevalehurdlers, so far outclassed their field that Arnold of Clinton, andTaylor of Fenton had been entered with no hope of first or second, butmerely to battle for the single point which would reward third place.Yet the race displayed the uncertainties of athletics in general, andof the high hurdles in particular; for while Barker, the winner of theprevious year, took the lead at the start, and was never headed,Jones, his team-mate, loafing comfortably along in second place, gotin too close at the sixth hurdle, struck it heavily, staggered a fewsteps, and plunged headlong into the seventh, bringing it down withhim to the ground. After this disaster, there was no hope of arecovery, and Arnold took second place, and Taylor third, makingunexpected and welcome additions to the winnings of their schools. Thefigures on the blackboard were shifted, and Clinton's lead wasreduced, while the Fenton score looked somewhat small beside the othertwo.
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
7 3 6
So ran the totals, and even as Dick studied them, the clerk's crysounded quick and sharp, "All out for the quarter; all out for themile; all out for the pole vault, hammer throw, broad jump." Dickstarted. For the moment he had almost forgotten that he was to competeat all. Quickly coming to himself, he rose, picked up his spikes, andmade his way down-stairs and across the field. Just ahead of him wereHarry Allen, Jack Morrison and Jim Egan, the three Fenton entries inthe quarter, and Brewster himself, rated as sure winner of the mile,came jogging up behind him, and fell into step by his side. "How'syour courage, old man?" he asked.
"Oh, pretty fair," Dick answered, "we haven't made much of a start,though."
Brewster shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, never mind the hundred and thehurdles," he said, "we didn't count on much there, anyway. But we'llscore big in the quarter, I think; and if I don't go to pieces in themile, we might get something there, too. You tear down at that oldtake-off, now, Dick, and we'll rip those A's off your shirt for youto-night. You get us a point, anyway."
"I'll do my best," Dick replied, and an instant later he was answeringto his name, with the half-dozen other contestants in the event.Stripping off his sweater, he took an easy practice jump, and as hedid so, a great load seemed lifted from his mind. He knew that he hadrecovered his spring, and the excitement of the competition made himfeel that he could beat anything he had done in practice. "I guess Mr.Fenton knew what was the matter with me, all right," he murmured tohimself.
His name was the first called. He made his mark at exactly fifty feetfrom the take-off, laid the sleeve of his sweater at the edge of thepath, and walked back another forty feet or so for his preliminaryrun. He tried to remember all the instructions that McDonald had givenhim, but in his excitement, he could think of little more than ofhitting his mark correctly, and of getting a good lift into the air."All ready," cried the scorer, "Randall, Fenton, first try."
Dick stood erect, drew a long breath, and then, with musclestense and rigid, began his run. One--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight--came his preliminary strides, and he sensed, rather thanknew, that he had brought the toe of his jumping shoe just even withthe sweater's crimson sleeve. And then, for the last eight strides, heran with every ounce of energy he possessed; bang, he hit the take-offfair and square, and landed far out in the pit, his knees thrown wellin front of him. There was a ripple of applause from the grandstand,and he knew that the jump must at least have been a fair one. He stoodwaiting at the side of the pit, while the measurers did their work.Then the man at the farther end of the tape straightened up,announcing, "Twenty feet, six and one-quarter."
Dick jogged back, well satisfied. The distance was nearly as good ashis best, and he felt confident of qualifying for the finals. Two orthree of the other contestants jumped in the neighborhood of nineteenfeet, and then Harding of Hopevale jumped twenty feet, three. No oneelse equalled Dick's mark until Johnson's name was called. The Clintonathlete stood waiting for the dirt to be raked over in the pit, andDick found himself, half against his will, admiring the Pentathlonman's graceful, clean-cut build. He was an inch or two taller
thanDick, not so broad-shouldered or so muscular, but with thatindefinable stamp of the athlete, which for want of a better word, wecharacterize as "rangy." As he started for his jump, Dick watched himcritically, noticing that he ran hard, with his knees lifted well intothe air, and then, as Johnson struck the take-off, and leaped, he gavea little gasp of surprise. Here was form, indeed, beside which theefforts of the others appeared as nothing. This was no mere run fromthe board; it was a real jump. Johnson shot into the air, feet infront of him, sailing along like a cannon ball. Instantly, thegrandstand burst into a shout of applause. From the Clinton sectioncame a continued burst of organized cheering, and the announcer threwan extra impressiveness into his voice as he shouted, "Mr. Johnsonjumps twenty-one, three and three-quarters."
Johnson came walking back, a smile on his face. Dick accosted himgood-naturedly. "That was a dandy," he said. "You can have this event,I guess. You won't have to jump again."
Johnson took the other's speech in good part. "Oh, I don't know," heanswered, sitting down at Dick's side and drawing his bath-robe aroundhis knees. "You can't ever tell till the last man's had his last try."Then, after a little pause, he added, "Are you going to try thePentathlon, Randall?"
Dick nodded. "I think so," he answered, "though I don't expect to domuch against you and Ellis. Still, I guess I'll give it a try, anyway.There doesn't seem to be any one else to represent the school. But ifI can't win," he added, "I tell you, right now, I hope you give Ellisthe worst licking he ever had in his life."
Johnson nodded. "I know just how you fellows feel about Ellis," hesaid, "and I don't blame you a bit. A chap that will leave his schoolin the lurch like that can't have much of the right stuff in him. ButI don't know about licking him. He's awfully good in the weights. Andthe Hopevale crowd say that since he came there he's improved a lot,too. I don't know whether it's so or not, but they claim he's beatingforty feet with the shot, right along. And that he's throwing thehammer a hundred and sixty. But you can't tell. They may be trying toscare us, so we'll think it's no use to enter, even. Never can tellbeforehand--that's my motto in athletics."
Dick nodded, and was about to answer, when the scorer called,"Randall, second try." Dick rose, and was making ready for his run,when the scorer waved him back. "No, don't jump, Mr. Randall," hecried. "Sit down again, please. Wait till they run the quarter mile."
Dick nodded, and complied. Every eye in the field was turned on thestart of the quarter. The nine athletes stretched straight across thetrack. Dick saw that Morrison of his own school was on the pole; thatHarry Allen was sixth in line, and that their third entry, Egan, wason the extreme outside. "Bang!" went the pistol, and the runners wereoff, in a mad burst for the lead to the first turn. There was littleto be distinguished for a moment or two, and then, as they rounded andsquared away for the back stretch, Dick's heart gave a great leap ofexcitement. Morrison had held his lead, Egan had cut clean across infront of the others, and was second; only Allen lay back, in seventhposition, apparently "pocketed" and unable to extricate himself. Upthe stretch they swung, in steady, rhythmical procession; from acrossthe field one would have said that they scarcely moved; so greatly didthe added distance deceive the eye. Once a Hopevale runner spurted andtried to pass the leaders, but they quickened their pace in turn, andhe fell back into the ruck, beaten and exhausted. Dick could not takehis eyes from Allen's figure. He hardly realized, until that moment,how much he cared for his friend; he felt as if he himself wererunning the race; under his breath he was muttering, "Go it, Harry! Goit, old man!"
Around the curve they swung, and squared away for home. A great shoutcame from the grandstand "Fenton, Fenton, Fenton!" and then "Morrison!Egan!" "Go it, Morrison! Go it, Egan!" again and again.
It was a Fenton victory; there was no doubt of that. The two runnerswere yards ahead of the field, and though both were tiring, theyseemed certain of keeping their lead to the tape, well ahead of therest. Dick felt a mixture of emotions. He was glad, first of all, ofcourse, for the school, and yet, mingled with his joy, there was atinge of sorrow for his friend. For he knew Allen's ambition had beento wind up his last year with a win, and he felt that after all thework he had done, it would be only a fair reward. Yet, barring theimpossible, Allen was beaten. And then, while all these thoughts wereflashing through his brain in a hundredth part of the time it takes toput the words on paper, the seemingly impossible did happen. All atonce, as Dick sought for his friend's figure in the struggling ruck,he caught sight of him, running wide on the outside of the field, butcutting loose at last, with all the energy which he had held inreserve, while he had been forced to wait and hang back, pocketed,against his will. He did not merely pass the wearied runners from theother two schools; he flashed by them as if they had been standingstill. It was a sight to bring a crowd to its feet, and to its feet itcame.
Never for one instant did Allen's splendid stride relax. His eyes werehalf closed, his head was thrown a little to one side, his lips weredrawn back from his teeth, but he ran like a race-horse, true, steady,and game to the core, putting out the last ounce in him in a finishsuch as Fenton Field had rarely seen. Twenty yards from the tape hepassed his schoolmates, still locked shoulder to shoulder, and keepingstill to his tremendous pace, swept by the post--a winner.
The whole Fenton section of the stand was in an uproar. First, secondand third; a clean sweep--all eight points in the quarter--here wassomething to buoy up their hopes at last. Nor did this end their goodfortune. A moment later the mile runners were started on their longfour circuits of the track, and Ned Brewster justified all thepredictions that had been made for him. He had the rest of the fieldoutclassed, and saving himself for the half-mile which was to comelater, made no effort at fast time, winning easily in four minutes andforty-eight seconds, with Sheldon of Clinton second, and Marshall ofHopevale third. The scorer at the bulletin board again shifted his bigfigures, and now they read:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
9 16 7
Dick went back to his broad jump trials with a light heart. It seemedthat the meet was as good as won. On his second trial he stepped overthe take-off and made a foul jump, and on his third, in his anxietynot to repeat the mistake, he fell short of the board by almost afoot, and though the actual distance was greater than anything he hadyet done, in measurement it amounted to but twenty feet and one-halfan inch. Yet he qualified for the finals, for Harding of Hopevale wasthe only man who bettered his mark to any extent. On his secondattempt he cleared twenty feet, eight inches; while Johnson, after hisfirst good jump, waived his next two trials, watching the work of theothers to see whether he need jump again, or could save himself forthe high.
Dick had felt himself grow more limber with each successive jump, andnow felt sure that if he could once catch the take-off correctly, hecould improve his mark. On his first trial, in the finals, heaccomplished what he wished, and knew, even while still in midair,that he had excelled his first performance. The measurer pulled thetape up carefully to the mark left by Dick's heels in the soft,well-rolled earth, and then announced, "Twenty-one one and a half."Dick grew suddenly elated. It was the best jump he had ever made. Hewas ahead of Harding; almost up to Johnson himself. For a moment heeven dreamed that he might prove the winner, after all. But histriumph was short-lived. Johnson pulled off his sweater and took hissecond try, and this time, putting a trifle more speed into his run,cleared twenty-one, seven and a quarter. Dick failed to improve on hissecond and third tries, yet he seemed sure of second place untilHarding's last jump. The Hopevale man put all his energies into hisattempt, and even from where Dick stood he could tell that the jumpwas a good one. A moment later the announcer called, "Mr. Hardingjumps twenty-one, five," and Dick was put back to third. Yet he hadwon a point for the school, and with it the right to wear his "F."
And now the clerk came running up with two sheets of paper in hishand. He gave them to the announcer, who forthwith called out,"Throwing the sixteen-po
und hammer--won by Ellis of Hopevale--second,Merrihew of Hopevale--third, Robinson of Fenton. Distance, one hundredand fifty-eight feet, eleven inches."
There followed a storm of cheers from the Hopevale section, and theannouncer, raising his hand for silence, continued, "Pole vault, wonby Garfield of Fenton--second, Amory of Hopevale--third, Hollingsworthof Hopevale--height, ten feet, six inches." Applause from Fenton, andagain from Hopevale, for the second and third had not been looked for.And now the score board showed:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
14 23 19
Decidedly, matters were growing interesting. The next three trackevents were run off quickly, and without making much change in therelative positions of the schools. Brewster won the half for Fenton,in the good time of two, two and a quarter, with Cartwright ofHopevale second, and Donaldson of Clinton third. The two-twenty, as isso often the case, resulted exactly as the hundred had done, Harris ofClinton winning in twenty-two and four-fifths, with Lindsay of Fentonsecond, and Adams of Hopevale third. In the low hurdles Fenton wasshut out altogether, while Hopevale was deprived of two points onwhich she had counted, for though Barker, who had been first in thehigh, repeated his victory in the longer race, and won handily intwenty-six and three-fifths, Jones' injured knee was too stiff toallow him to start, and Ballantyne and Salisbury of Clinton tooksecond and third for their school. Thus but two events--the shot andthe high jump--were left, and the score board showed:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
23 30 17
The shot was called first, and Brewster, his eyes gleaming withexcitement, came hurriedly up to Dick. "Do your best, old man," hewhispered. "Every point is going to count now. If you could get secondit would be great; even third would help a lot. This is going to bethe closest meet we ever had."
Dick nodded, though feeling little confidence in his chances. Ellisand Merrihew, he considered, were practically sure of first andsecond; with Ross of Clinton he felt that he had a fighting chance forthird. Every eye was turned on the shot ring, and the scorer called,"Ellis of Hopevale, first try."
Ellis, big and strong and brawny, stepped forward with perfectconfidence, poised for a moment, and then leaped into his put. EvenDick, much as he disliked the performer, could not repress a thrill ofadmiration for the performance. It was a splendid try--clean, fast,with a fine follow--and all done so easily that Dick could scarcelycredit his ears when the measurer gave his result to the announcer,and the latter shouted, "Mr. Ellis puts thirty-nine, four and a half."
Two other contestants made tries which fell five or six feet short ofEllis', and then Ross put thirty-seven, four. Directly after himMerrihew, big and ungainly, with brute strength enough to move amountain, made a slow, awkward put of thirty-eight, two. Then Dick'sname was called. Again Brewster whispered, "Do your best, old man,"and Allen slapped him encouragingly on the back. "Remember not to trytoo hard, Dick," he said. Both meant their advice in the kindestpossible way, but it was a mistake of inexperience. Dick, for thefirst time in his athletic career, in a really tight place, felt as ifhe were moving in a dream, and his schoolmates' words only served toincrease his nervousness. He took his place in the ring. The shotseemed to have grown terribly heavy, and forgetting everything thatMcDonald had been drilling into him for the past weeks, he putblindly, and walked out of the circle, scarcely knowing whether he haddone well or ill. There was an ominous silence, and then the scorerannounced, "Mr. Randall puts thirty-two, ten and a half."
Dick felt himself flush. There was a sneer on Ellis' face. He spokeloudly enough for every one around the circle to hear. "That's thePentathlon man from Fenton," he said to Merrihew. "He's all right,isn't he? He's a dandy."
With an effort Dick kept control of himself. And then the second roundbegan. It resulted in a general improvement. Ellis put forty feet andone inch; Ross thirty-seven, eleven; Merrihew thirty-eight, nine. Whenit came Dick's turn he forced himself to imagine that he waspractising alone in McDonald's field, with no crowd to trouble him. Heput his whole mind on his form, and as a result, did better, gettingin a try of thirty-six, seven. Yet he felt far from satisfied, and allat once it flashed upon him that he was doing the very thing whichMcDonald had told him, long ago, was his besetting fault, that he wasstiffening up too soon in his effort, and not getting the powerful,sweeping drive which made Ellis' trials so successful.
The third round began. Ellis fell back a few inches, puttingthirty-nine, ten and a half; Ross improved to thirty-eight, four;Merrihew put an even thirty-nine feet. "Thirty-eight four to beat,"Dick kept thinking to himself. He had never done it in practice, butnow, if ever, was the time. His name was called. He was perfectly coolby this time; he knew exactly what he wished to do; and poising easilyat the back of the ring, he swung into his put, and finished throughwith every bit of strength he possessed. It was a better try than hisothers--he knew that, on the instant--but was it good enough for thepoint. The measurers seemed to take longer than usual over their task.Finally the announcer cried, "Thirty-eight, three and a half." Dickturned away, sick at heart. He had failed; the point was lost.
Brewster and Allen were at his side in an instant, cheering him asbest they could. "That's all right, old man," Brewster cried; "don'tyou care. You beat your record. You can't do impossibilities. Don'tyou mind." But Dick refused to be comforted. "A half an inch," he keptrepeating to himself, over and over again. "The least little bit moreginger; the least little bit better form; a half an inch; confound theluck!" and he sat gloomily watching the finals, which resulted asexpected, Ellis first, Merrihew second, Ross third. And the scoreboard showed:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
24 30 34
The high jump alone remained. Brewster figured for a moment, and thencame over to Dick. "I don't want to rattle you, old man," he said,"but there's just one chance in a hundred still. Hopevale hasn't a manthat's any good in the high; Clinton's got Johnson and Robinson. Ifyou could get a streak of jumping and beat Johnson, we'd win by apoint."
Dick nodded. "I'll do everything that's in me, Ned," he said quietly,and Brewster felt satisfied with the reply.
The high jump was soon under way. At five feet, two, only Johnson,Robinson and Dick were left. At five four, Robinson failed, scoring asingle point for Clinton. And then ensued a duel between Johnson andDick. Dick was jumping in his old time form, with plenty of speed andspring, and all the stimulus of knowing that he might yet save theday. Both boys cleared five, five, and five, six, in safety. At five,seven, Johnson failed on his first trial, and the Fenton supportersfelt a sudden gleam of hope. Dick made ready for his try, every muscleworking in unison, every fiber in his body intent on clearing the barin safety. He ran down easily, quickened his pace on his last threestrides, and leaped. It was a splendid effort, save that he had takenoff a trifle too far from the bar. He was almost over and then, in alast effort to work his body clear he lost his balance, just grazingthe bar, and fell into the pit, landing with one leg under him. Therewas a moment's suspense; the bar hung undecidedly, springing up anddown under the impact of Dick's body--and then, just as the Fentoncrowd were getting ready to cheer, it gave one final shiver anddropped into the pit at Dick's side. The cheers were changed to agroan of disappointment, and then the silence grew almost painful asDick did not rise. Brewster hurried over to him; Randall's face waswhite with pain. "Ankle, Ned," he said. "Give me a hand up, please."
A moment later the doctor was examining him. "No break," he announcedat last, "and nothing really serious. But that ends it for to-day.Another wrench, and you can't tell what would happen. Sorry, but it'sthe fortune of war."
Dick protested vigorously. "I can get around on it," he cried, "let mejog up and down, Doctor, and then take one more try. I don't care whathappens."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be foolish, Dick," he said."You couldn't jump three fe
et with that ankle. Don't walk on it,either, you must give it absolute rest."
Yet Dick insisted, and gamely tried to hobble back to the jumpingpath. The effort was vain. Things swam around him, and with a longsigh of disappointment he sank back on the ground. "All right, I'llquit," he said, and a moment later Johnson cleared the height, and thegames were done.
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
30 32 34
It had been the closest meet in the history of the schools. Half anhour later, as Dick left the locker-room, leaning on Allen's shoulder,he heard Dave Ellis' voice, holding forth to a knot of admiringsupporters from Hopevale.
"Turn his ankle? Not a bit of it," he was saying. "That's an old gag.He knew when he was licked. He's got no sand. He won't go into thePentathlon now."
Dick shook off Allen's detaining hand and thrust open the door."Sounds natural, Dave," he said, meeting Ellis' surprised glance witha rather grim smile, "but if it interests you to know it, he will gointo the Pentathlon, and perhaps he'll make you hustle, too." Hebanged the door behind him and limped away, his hand on Allen'sshoulder, down the stairs.
Dick Randall, the Young Athlete Page 7