CHAPTER XXV
THE LAST EVENT
Eleven men had entered for the two-mile run, six from Robinson andfive from Erskine. Of these, we know Ware, Conroy, and Hooker, wearersof the purple ribbon, and have just heard of Burns, the Brown's cracklong-distance runner. In view of the result of the race, it may be wellto mention also Tammen, another Robinson entry, who, until to-day,had been viewed as a second-rater. For the others, they were big andlittle, fair and dark, and all with their spurs still to win. Takentogether, they were a clean-built, healthy lot as they stood at thestarting line, their white running pants and white shirts--the lattercrossed by the purple ribbon or the brown and white--just tinged withsaffron by the long rays of the setting sun. The starter glanced againat his pistol.
"_Set!_" he cried.
And as the runners put their weights forward and poised arms frontand back, the pistol spoke and the spiked shoes bit at the cindersas the men strove for the inside of the track. The timers lookedup from their watches and the group about the line broke up. Tenminutes--possibly a little less, perhaps a little more--must elapsebefore the result could be known and Erskine or Robinson could claimthe meet. For by a freak of fortune each college had now 54 pointsto its credit, and final victory would go to that one whose colorsfirst brushed the string at the finish. Whether the spring's labor andplanning was to be crowned with victory or draped with defeat dependedon who won first place and its 5 points.
A knowledge of this accompanied Allan all through the race, nowspurring him on to determined effort, now casting him into the depthsof hopelessness and despair. The meet depended upon him, and he wishedwith all his heart that it didn't. For from the first instant heknew that he was not in a condition to do his best. He was aware ofhigh-strung nerves and a general feeling of worry. For the latter therewas no longer any reason; but reason or no reason, it remained. Thelast two days and their accompanying nights of unrefreshing slumber hadhad their effect. For the rest, his muscles were strong and supple, hislungs eager for their task.
Half-way around the first lap he had secured the lead, none disputingit with him, and had settled down into that apparently slow pacewhich makes the two-mile event look so unexciting at the first. Heknew himself capable of making that pace for the entire distance andfinishing comparatively fresh, but he also knew that Burns, who wascoming serenely along half-way back down the length of the string,could stand it quite as well, and could probably sprint in the lastquarter mile and beat him out. He decided then to increase the pace, inthe hope of wearing the Robinson crack out, yet knowing that to maketoo fast a race would finish him up just as surely as it would Burns.
When the home-stretch was reached in that first lap Allan set his legsto faster work, and as he crossed the line and completed the eighth ofhis distance, supporters of the Purple shook their heads. It wouldn'tdo, they murmured; he would run himself out in the first mile and ahalf. Even Kernahan was a little worried, though nothing of the sortshowed on his face. At the end of the second lap Allan had not abatedhis speed a jot.
As he passed the groups around the finish and the tents, his eyes wereset straight ahead, his long strides clung closely to the inner rim ofthe track and he was holding himself well erect. Into his cheeks theblood was creeping and dyeing them crimson, save for two disks thatshowed whiter and whiter as the contest wore on. Behind Allan ran anunknown Robinson man, then Hooker, then Tammen, then Burns. Conroy wasdangerously far back, and, with others in his neighborhood, was showingthat he didn't approve of the pace.
Of all distances, the two miles is the hardest to run. Speed as afactor in success is largely eliminated, and endurance is the supremetest. The race requires a large courage on the part of the runner,the courage to endure. It has been said, and truly, that it takes afast man for the sprints and a brave man for the distances. At thecompletion of the fourth lap it is safe to say that five of the sixrunners were as completely and hopelessly beaten as though the race wasfinishing. Their legs dragged, their heads were falling back, and theirlungs were aching. But it had been the fastest half of a two-mile raceever run on Erskine Field.
Of those in the van of the long line of runners, which now stretchedhalf-way around the oval, only three maintained their form at thebeginning of the fifth lap; those were Allan, Burns, and Tammen.Save that the unknown Robinson man who had held second place at thebeginning had dropped back to fifth position, the order was unchanged.Between Allan and his team-mate, Hooker, there was three yards ofcinders; between Hooker and Tammen, five yards more. Back of Tammen,only a stride separating them, ran Burns, untroubled, and holding hisown with great, long, easy strides.
The turf was strangely green, for the low slanting beams of the sunbathed it in their golden glow. The stands were almost deserted, forthe occupants were clustered all along the home-stretch, their eagergaze following the white-clad figures on the darkening track.
If Allan's form was still nearly what it had been at the beginning ofthe race, it must not be supposed that the mile had not told. Usuallythe two-miler finishes the half-distance in comparatively unweariedcondition and faces his troubles from then on, but Allan had set afast pace, and it had told on him, in spite of appearances. He feltas he usually did at the end of the mile and a half, and he wonderedtroubledly if he had not overdone it.
At the turns, now and then, a backward glance revealed the confidentface of Burns, while Hooker's tortured breathing told its own tale.Either he must last out or Robinson would take second and thirdpositions, as well as first. But he had grown fearful of his ability todo so, and on the sixth lap he eased up on his pace. And half-way downthe back-stretch he wondered if he had not, after all, made a mistakein doing so. For Burns, refusing to slow down, had bested Tammen andHooker and was apparently striving to pass Allan. But at the beginningof the next lap, the seventh, Allan saw that the supreme struggle wasnot yet, for Burns had slipped in behind him, apparently content to lethim set the pace for a while longer.
Then Hooker began to drop back. He had done his best, but his best wasnot good enough. Tammen passed him and ranged himself behind Burns, andthese three, when the last lap began, were leading the field by sixtyyards or more. As they swept by the finish the shouts of the spectatorsmade a deafening roar in their ears. Allan had a dim vision of Peteleaping alongside the track at the first turn, near the tents, wavinghis long arms against the sunset glow and shouting unintelligiblethings.
Once around that first turn, Allan shot a glance over his shoulder andhis heart leaped. Unless he was very much mistaken, Burns had lostground. That was Allan's last turn of the head. From that time on itwas merely a question of hugging the rim of the track and enduring theache of limb and chest, doubting all the while his ability to hold hisplace and all the while determining to do it.
He was right about Burns. That redoubtable runner had gone to piecesall in the minute. At the second turn he was plainly no longerdangerous to Allan, and back at the finish the throng roared its reliefand delight. And while it was still shouting, Tammen shot around Burnsand began to lessen the dozen or so yards between him and Allan. AndAllan, hearing vaguely a new note in the voices across the field andthe rapid pat of steps on the track behind him, guessed what was up andfelt his heart sink. Here was a man who could sprint, something Allanhad never been able to do satisfactorily, and here, in all probability,was the winner of the race! Those gazing obliquely across the oval sawAllan falter for a stride just at the farther turn, and their heartssank.
But after that first instant of what was something like terror, Allanpulled himself together. In his own words, it was up to him to win, andwin he would, if only his breath would last that long. Tammen, threeyards behind him, made no attempt to pass him at the turns, but kepthimself in hand for the home-stretch. And Allan, grim and determined,weakening with every long gasp for breath, knew that when the trackstretched straight before him to the distant white line the battlewould really begin, and that in the length of that distance the meetingwould be won or lost.
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nbsp; And then he finished the turn and the rim ran straight beside him.And then the _pat_, _pat_ behind him crept nearer and nearer.Presently, when the stretch was half run, Allan was conscious, withoutlooking--for he dared not take his eyes from the track ahead--ofsomething grayish-white at his elbow.
The time had come to do the impossible, to spur his weary limbs intorenewed effort, to force his panting lungs to greater exertion, andto keep that grayish blur where it was. To have thrown himself--nay,to have simply let himself drop onto the grass beside the track andtroubled no more about anything, would have been at that moment thegreatest pleasure of a lifetime. But along the track voices wereroaring and shrieking, and, although the words were sounds only, themeaning of them he knew. They wanted him to win, and the desire found anew echo in his heart. He wanted to win, and--why, yes, he _would_ win!
And now the white line was in plain sight, although he didn't seeit, and the roar of voices was rising and growing. For a moment itseemed to him that he was motionless, and that the dark ranks oneither side were moving slowly past him. And at the moment a glimpseof whitish-gray at his right dispelled the illusion, and with a sobfor breath, he forced himself on. Once in that remaining twenty yardshe staggered, and the watchers held their breaths for fear, but herecovered himself and plunged, reeling, on--and on--and on. Was thereno end to it? he wondered, in agony. The haunting blur beside him wasgone now, and----
"Hold up! Easy, man, easy!" cried a voice that he seemed to know, andthen dozens of arms were clutching him, and he let himself go. And ashis eyes closed a whitish form passed before them and dropped fromsight. Tammen, plucky to the last, was being lifted from the track,where, defeated and exhausted, he had fallen. And Allan, with closedeyes and tortured lungs, felt himself being carried to the tent, whilein his ears was a roar of sound that told of victory and a race wellrun.
On Your Mark! A Story of College Life and Athletics Page 26