Barbour Ralph Henry
On Your Mark! A Story of College Life and Athletics
CHAPTER XXIII
THE FRESHMAN GAME
“Your aunt was in Los Angeles California Monday expected stay week address Mission House. Is anything wrong? Mother.”
This message Allan found awaiting him when he hurried home from dinner that evening. So far so good, he reflected. But Monday was three days gone, and if his aunt had changed her mind and gone on! – well, he didn’t like to consider that contingency. Seating himself at his desk, he composed two messages, one to his aunt and one to the manager of the Mission House. In the latter he requested that his message to Miss Mary G. Merrill be forwarded to her, in case she had left the hotel. In the other message he finally expressed, at the expense of thirty-four words, what he wanted his aunt to do. Then he hurried again to the telegraph office and begged the emotionless operator to get both messages off at once. The operator nodded silently.
“You haven’t received any other message for me, have you?” asked Allan. The operator as silently shook his head. Allan wandered back to his room. Studying was a task this evening, and he was glad when Tommy demanded admittance. A few minutes later Pete, too, arrived, looking very satisfied with life. Allan did not notice the exchange of glances between the last comer and Tommy, and if he had he would not have understood them, nor would he have connected them with the matter uppermost in his thoughts. Tommy raised his eyebrows inquiringly and Pete nodded with a smile and mysteriously tapped the breast of his coat.
Allan was full of his quandary and found much relief in telling everything to Tommy and exhibiting the telegrams received and copies of those sent. Pete, strange to say, and somewhat to Allan’s disappointment, did not display the amount of interest in the subject which Allan thought he should have; and even Tommy seemed soon to tire of the matter. Allan fell into silence, reflecting pessimistically on the readiness of your friends to abandon your troubles. Pete and Tommy left early – Tommy had been on the point of leaving ever since his arrival – and with their parting injunctions to “cheer up” and “don’t let it bother you” in his ears, Allan went sorrowfully to bed.
The next day was Friday, and it dawned cloudy and chill. May has its moods, even in Centerport, but it was unfortunate that it should have displayed the fact to-day, for the gloominess of the weather increased Allan’s despondency until Two Spot, blinking inquiringly from the Morris chair, saw that the world was awry and decided to go to sleep until things were righted again. And the answer to his St. Thomas Club message, which came just before noon, did not tend to lighten Allan’s spirits.
“Ware of Erskine,” it ran, “won third in mile run December twenty-sixth.”
Allan, as he tossed the sheet of buff paper angrily aside, wondered whether, after all, he had not taken part in the meeting while temporarily unbalanced; he had heard of such things, he thought. Or perhaps he had fallen asleep and – but no, his imagination couldn’t conceive of any one running a mile race and negotiating inclined corners without waking up! It was a strange and maddening mystery, and the more he puzzled over it the stranger it seemed and the more exasperated he became.
Stearns called after lunch and listened to an account of the developments with perfunctory interest. He had given up hope of having Allan enter the meet, and had decided that it didn’t much matter. For it was evident that Allan was worried and nervous, and the chances that he would give a good account of himself, if he ran, were slim. Stearns was sympathetic, but Allan could see that he, like Pete and Tommy, wasn’t inclined to let the matter trouble him overmuch.
After the track captain had left, Allan fell into still deeper despondency and mooned about his room – which was the last thing he should have done – until four o’clock, when a half-hour of jogging on the track took him out. No reply from Aunt Mary had reached him by dinner time, and although he stayed awake until eleven, in violation of training orders, listening eagerly for the opening of the gate which should announce the advent of the messenger, he was at last forced to go to sleep without the message. You may be certain his sleep did him little good. He dreamed all night, or so it seemed, and morning found him tired and haggard. His first look was toward the door-sill, but no buff envelope rewarded it.
“That settles it,” he muttered, bitterly; “I’m not going to hope any longer.”
Having reached this decision, he threw back his shoulders and walked to breakfast whistling a tune. To be sure, the tune wasn’t always tuneful, and sometimes it died out entirely, but it was a brave effort. Breakfast at the training table was an uncomfortable meal for him. The others were in the best of spirits, and there was present a half-suppressed excitement that showed itself on the countenances and in the bearing of the fellows.
None there save Stearns and Pete knew of Allan’s trouble, and they gave no sign. Pete even seemed to Allan to be indecently happy, and his attempts at conversation met with scant encouragement. Half-way through the meal Rindgely’s absence was discovered, and Kernahan was despatched to hunt him up. He had not returned when Allan left the house. Every one was cautioned to spend the forenoon out-of-doors and report promptly at eleven-thirty for lunch.
The town soon took on a gala appearance. The sidewalks were thronged by ten o’clock, and none seemed to have anything to do save discuss the outcome of the afternoon’s performances. Erskine banners hung from the shop windows and fluttered over front doors. Pete wanted Allan to go out to the field with him and see the Erskine-Robinson freshman game, but Allan had no heart for it, and refused to leave his room. He had no recitations, for the professors had very generally given cuts. He wrote a letter to his mother – a very dismal production it was, too – and then sat at the window with Two Spot in his lap and watched the crowds pass on their way to the game.
The college band, followed by a mob of singing, cheering freshmen, went by in a cloud of dust, and presently a barge containing the home nine passed, and Allan had a glimpse of Hal’s gray-clad shoulders. The Robinson youngsters had already gone out. The steady stream of townfolk and students became broken; groups of three and four passed at intervals; now and then a couple of students, laughing and chatting, or a solitary mortal hurried by the house. Then, quite suddenly, as it seemed, all traffic ceased, and Poplar Street resumed its wonted quiet.
Half an hour later Allan’s eyes, roaming from the magazine which he was striving to read, sighted a faded blue coat across the little park, and his heart leaped into his throat. A messenger boy, whistling a blithe tune, toiled slowly along, as though his shoulders bore the weight of a great sorrow. Once, when almost at the corner, he stopped, leaned against the fence and seemed on the point of going to sleep. Then he roused himself and came on. Allan restrained an impulse to dart out into the road and waited on the porch, with his heart beating like a trip-hammer. The boy reached the corner, glanced with mild interest at Allan – and went on up Main Street.
After the first moment of blank and sickening dismay, Allan went to the end of the porch and looked after him. Perhaps, after all, he was mistaken, and would discover the fact and turn back. But eventually the lad sauntered across the street and disappeared around the corner of McLean. Allan went back to his chair, his heart like lead and a lump in his throat that wouldn’t be swallowed.
Out at Erskine Field great things were happening. The purple-lettered youngsters were more than holding their own against the far-heralded team of Robinson. It was the sixth inning, and the score stood 9 to 5 in Erskine’s favor. Hal had played a magnificent game at second and already had a double-play to his credit, and had, besides, succeeded beyond all of his team-mates at hitting the redoubtable brown-stockinged pitcher. Side by side on the warm turf back of third-base, Tommy and Pete were sitting cross-legged, having passed the ropes by virtue of Tommy’s ever-present note-book, with its staring inscription, “Erskine Purple,” on the cover. The last man of the Erskine side went out, the teams changed places, the seventh inning began with Robinson’s tail-enders coming to the plate, and Pete resumed his narrative, which had been interrupted by Hal’s hard drive to left-field.
“He didn’t have any idea what I had come for,” Pete said, “and was going to be very nice and polite; he can be when he likes, you know. But I wasn’t there to pass compliments or swap stories, so I got right down out of the saddle and talked business. ‘Rindgely, I know that you ran in the St. Thomas Club meet in Brooklyn the night after Christmas, under the name of A. Ware, and won fifteen dollars,’ I said, ‘and you’ve got to come out in the open and say so.’ Of course, it was a rank bluff; I was pretty certain about it after I’d talked with you, but I didn’t know absolutely, and couldn’t prove anything. If he had kept his nerve and told me to go to thunder, it would have been all off on the spot, and I’d had to crawl off with my tail between my legs. But it took him so sudden that he just gasped and got pale around the gills. Then I knew I had him roped. So I just waded in and gave it to him hot and heavy. Told him he was a horse-thief and an all-round galoot; that he ought to be ashamed of himself, and a lot more. When I got through he was a pretty sick steer. I had him hog-tied and branded. Then he began to play fair. – Ginger! look at that hit! Good work! That’s two out, ain’t it? Only one? Well, it ought to be two.”
“And then what?” asked Tommy, making strange marks in the score-book on his knee.
“Well, I got kind of sorry for the poor old jack-rabbit. He told me all about it, and swore up and down he hadn’t meant any harm; that he wanted to try what he could do against some good men at the mile, and hadn’t cared a hang about the money. ‘But what did you use Ware’s name for?’ says I. ‘Wasn’t your own bad enough?’ ‘Because,’ says he, ‘I didn’t want my folks to know about it; they live there in Brooklyn, and might have seen my name in the paper next day. I didn’t think about making myself ineligible,’ says he, ‘and I didn’t think I was doing Ware any harm.’ Well, that may be a lie, but he was sure in the dumps, and so I agreed to make things easy for him. ‘You write it all out in black and white and sign your name to it,’ says I, ‘and if I can I’ll keep dark about it. If Allan gets a message from his aunt, all right; if he doesn’t, I show your document to Nast. I’ll wait till the two-mile is called.’ Bully for you, Hal! That’s three, ain’t it? Sure! Hit it out, Seven!”
“You see,” he went on, after the nines had changed places and the Erskine captain had seized his bat, “you see, I didn’t want to be any harder on Rindgely than I had to. He said if the faculty got hold of it they’d be sure to either bounce him bodily or hold up his diploma. Well, I guess they would, all right, eh?”
“Sure to,” answered Tommy, promptly, as he marked the first man out at first, scored an assist to the credit of the opposing pitcher and a put-out to that of the Brown’s first-baseman.
“So that’s the way we fixed it up. And I hope Allan gets word from auntie, for I’m blessed if I want Rindgely to get kicked out without graduating. It would be hard luck for a chap to do four years at hard labor here and then slip up just when he was going to grab the prize, wouldn’t it?”
“Hardest kind of luck,” said Tommy. “Hope you don’t have to show the confession.”
Erskine went out in one, two, three order and the eighth inning commenced. The band was doing gallant work and Pete found conversation beyond his powers until the last strains of a lively two-step had died away. By that time the Brown’s second man had been retired, and Robinson’s hopes were dwindling fast.
“Is he going to run this afternoon?” asked Tommy.
Pete shook his head.
“No; you see, I couldn’t let him do that; it would be against the law; if Allan couldn’t run he couldn’t, and that’s certain.”
“No, he hasn’t any right to,” said Tommy, thoughtfully. “He’s plainly ineligible because he ran for money; and then, there would be other reasons.”
“Well, that’s the way I figured it out,” said Pete, with a note of relief in his voice. He was glad to have his decision supported by some one who knew more about such things. “But he saw himself that it was all up with him as a runner. He said he’d be sick to-day, and, as he wasn’t at breakfast, I guess he is. I’ll bet Dr. Prentiss will have a hard time finding out what’s wrong with him.” And Pete chuckled wickedly.
“All out,” said Tommy. “Say, Hal! Oh, Hal! Give us a home run, Hal! Get out! Of course you can. We want some more runs.”
“I guess we don’t stand much show of winning this afternoon,” went on Pete. “With Rindgely out of it and Allan all balled up, I can see Robinson getting a few points.”
“They’ll win first in the mile, all right,” answered Tommy. “Hooker’s not in the same class with Rindgely this spring, and Harris isn’t a bit better; though maybe he’ll manage to get placed. As for Allan, he never has had any too good a chance at the two miles, and now, after all this rumpus, it’s a fair bet he’ll be out of it entirely. It’s a mean shame the way things have gone, and when you think that it’s all Rindgely’s fault, expulsion doesn’t seem a bit too bad for him.”
“Maybe,” said Pete, doubtfully, “but I don’t want to be the feller to get him bounced; that’s all. If Allan’s confounded old relative doesn’t come to time I’ll – well, I guess I’ll give Rindgely’s statement to you and let you attend to things.”
“You’ve got another guess, Pete,” said Tommy. “I don’t want anything to do with it. Besides, you worked the racket and ought to see it out.”
Pete sighed dolefully.
“I suppose I’ll have to,” he murmured.
Again the inning closed without a tally, and Robinson came in for her last turn at bat. Her players looked very determined, and it seemed not impossible that they would go in and make up the four runs that threatened to defeat them. And the band played again. Pete and Tommy were driven from their places by the crowd, which had left the stands and were invading the field, and they allowed themselves to be pushed forward to the foul-line.
“I suppose Allan thinks I’m a brute,” said Pete, dismally. “I didn’t go near him last night. But I just couldn’t stand seeing him so miserable, and not blurting out everything I knew. So I fought shy. I just hope it ends all right.”
Whether that ended all right another chapter will have to tell, but there was no doubt about the game ending that way. Robinson went down before superb pitching, and with the score still 9 to 5, the spectators flooded over the field and their cheers drowned even the band.
CHAPTER XXIV
“ON YOUR MARK!”
Once more the crowds were moving out to Erskine Field. It was after one o’clock, and experienced persons knew that there were no reserved seats and that “first come first served” was the rule. The midday sun shone warmly and only enthusiasts looked forward with pleasure to sitting on the unshaded stands for the next three hours. Robinson’s athletes went out William Street in two barges, their paraphernalia following them in a tumble-down express wagon drawn by a limping sorrel nag, whose bridle was draped with brown and white.
The contents of the barges were viewed with polite interest, but the wagon awakened amusement on the part of sober citizens and ribald mirth on the part of undignified undergraduates. Nearing the field, the eyes caught sight above the tree-tops of the great purple banner, with its snowy E, which fluttered lazily at the top of the tall staff. At half after one the stands were thickly sprinkled with spectators, and the flutter of programs – used in lieu of fans – was visible across the field; with a little imagination one could have likened the ladies, in their bright and many-colored gowns and hats, to flowers, and thought the fluttering programs lighter petals stirred in a breeze.
On the track, runners and sprinters were jogging to and fro and on the edge of the field the officials were gathering, their purple and gold badges glowing bravely in the sunlight. Two big tents had been erected at the end of the oval nearest the gates, and about them white-garbed contestants lay or sat on outspread dressing-gowns, while rubbers and trainers came and went among them like anxious hens among their broods.
In front of the Erskine dressing-tent sat Allan. He had been up and down the straightaway three times and was still breathing heavily as a result. He had no hope now of being allowed to enter his event, and even if he were, he reflected, he would stand small show of winning, since it was evident that he was in poor shape. Physically he seemed fit enough, but he was aware all the time of a feeling of nervousness and depression that was ill-calculated to help him in a grueling two miles.
Word had been left at the telegraph office that if a message came for him it was to be rushed out to the field as fast as possible, and to this end a horse and buggy from Pike’s stable was already standing in front of the door. Stearns was taking no chances, for now that Rindgely had been declared too ill to enter the contest, another five points were almost certain to go to Robinson, and if it was possible for Allan to enter the two miles and make a fight for a place, he must do it. Stearns was worried and down-hearted.
Even the most optimistic calculators could not figure a victory for Erskine with first places in both the long-distance events conceded to her rival. As a last resort, Stearns had secured the postponement of the two miles to the tag end of the afternoon. He had thrown himself on the generosity of the Robinson captain and explained the predicament.
And the Robinson captain, who was Brooks, their crack hurdler, had consented, a piece of sportsmanship which met with the condemnation of his trainer and many of the team. But the expedient promised to work little good, for it was plain that if Allan’s telegram to his aunt had reached her she would have replied not later than yesterday. But Stearns was in desperate straits and no chance was too slight for him to seize upon.
At a few minutes after two o’clock the pistol was heard from the far end of the straightaway, and Erskine took the first honors of the meet, Stearns securing first place and Leroy second in the 100 yards dash, and earning 8 points for the Purple.
To chronicle the afternoon’s proceedings in detail would be a tiresome as well as an unnecessary task. In the 120 yards hurdles, which followed the first dash, and in the 220 yards hurdles, which came later on the program, Robinson had things pretty much her own way, Brooks, her captain, taking first place handily in each. Robinson won 12 points in these events, and Erskine 6. Stearns again showed his mettle in the 220 dash, and Robinson got second and third; 5 points for Erskine and 4 points for her adversary. In the quarter-mile the best the home team could do was to secure third place, and that by the narrowest margin, though the time, 50⅖ seconds, was absurdly slow. When the mile was called, the 220 yards hurdles had not been run and the score on Professor Nast’s sheet stood: Erskine, 18; Robinson, 18. So far things were happening in a way that brought joy to the professor’s heart, but the field events were still undecided and the long distances were yet to run.
The mile event worked the audience up to the highest stage of excitement, and for a long while, in fact until the three-quarters had been passed, the race was most anybody’s. But after that Coolbroth of Robinson sprang into the lead, closely pursued by Harris of Erskine, and Patterson of Robinson. The finish was made in that order, Harris and Patterson fighting for second honors all the way around the last lap, and Harris finally winning his 3 points by a bare two yards. The hammer throw was decided about this time, and Robinson was credited with first and third, Monroe winning second for Erskine. The score now was not so satisfactory to the supporters of the Purple, since it stood: Erskine, 24; Robinson, 30.
The Purple exceeded expectations in the broad jump, allowing her rival but 1 point. In the high jump, however, she didn’t show up so well; Robinson took first and third places. After the 220 yards hurdles, which, as has been already told, were won by Brooks, Erskine securing but 1 point, the score was heavily in the Brown’s favor, 45 to 36. By this time the afternoon had worn well toward sunset. Only the shot-put, the 880 yards run, the pole-vault and the two miles remained. Of these, Robinson was conceded 8 points in the pole-vault, 5 in the shot-put and 1 in the 880. It was difficult to see how Erskine could pull out of the meet ahead. In fact, it was evident that she couldn’t. Even Tommy, normally optimistic, had lost hope. While the competitors in the hurdles were trotting off to the tents he hurried across to where the shot-putters were at work. As he approached, six of the nine candidates were donning their dressing-gowns, and he knew that the trials were over and that the six were out of it. Then he pursed his lips and whistled softly. Of the three competitors remaining for the finals, two were Erskine men, Monroe and – yes, the other was Pete! The Robinson candidate was Tiernan, who had won first in the hammer throw. Pete hailed Tommy and drew him aside.
“Have you got that paper safe?” he asked.
“Yes.” Tommy reassured him by allowing a corner of it to peep forth from his inside pocket. Pete nodded and glanced toward the tent.
“For goodness’ sake, don’t lose it,” he said. “And keep a watch for the two miles. We’re not through here yet and I don’t want the scheme to slip up.”
“All right. And say, Pete!”
“Yep?”
“Do your best, old man, won’t you?” begged Tommy. “They’re ’way ahead of us, but if we get first and third out of this we may have a fighting chance.”
“Well, we’ll see,” said Pete, untroubled. “I’ve got Monroe dead to rights, anyway.”
“Yes, but beat Tiernan, Pete; we’ve got to win!”
“Well, just as you say, Tommy,” answered Pete, smiling at the other’s look of tragedy. “For your sake, Tommy, I’ll do my best.”
“Burley!” called the field judge, and Pete drew his sweater off and stepped into the ring. There were three competitors remaining, and each was allowed three tries, the best of which was to count. Pete picked up the shot, took up his position at the rear of the circle, placed the weight in his broad right hand, threw his left arm out to balance him, raised his left foot from the ground, and then, with a motion that was neither hop nor glide, reached the front of the circle, brought his right shoulder smartly round and sent the weight flying. The measurer started to lay the end of the tape where the shot had struck, but stopped at judge’s announcement.
“Foul,” said the latter. “You overstepped, Burley.”
Pete nodded carelessly and donned his sweater again. Kernahan, who had approached during the try, beckoned to him, and they stepped aside.
“That won’t do, Pete,” said Billy. “Keep that elbow in to the body; you had it spread way out that time. And mind the stop. Take all the time you want, you know; there’s no hurry.”
Pete grinned.
“That’s all right,” he said. “Don’t worry about me, Billy. I’ll get it away all right next time.”
Monroe followed with a put of 43 feet 6 inches, and Tiernan bettered this by half a foot. Again Pete peeled his sweater off and took up the shot. As he stood there, balancing himself, he looked, with a careless, good-natured smile on his face, like a giant who, for his amusement, had entered the sports of pigmies. He was taller than Tiernan and bigger everywhere than Monroe; the judge came barely to his shoulder. The muscles of his arms were like great ropes under the clear skin. Once more he crossed the ring, and once more the leaden ball was hurled forward. From the stands came a chorus of applause. Tommy’s face lighted, and even Billy gave an appreciative nod. The Robinson trainer, standing across the circle, shot a quick glance at Pete as he stepped out and took his sweater from the turf.
“Forty-four feet seven inches,” announced the judge, as he held the tape to the edge of the stop-board. Tommy clapped Pete on the shoulder and whispered his delight. Pete smiled good-humoredly.
“All out for the 880!” cried a voice across the oval. “Hurry up, half-milers!”
Monroe made his second try, and the tape said 44 feet 1 inch. He turned away in disgust. Pete smiled. Robinson’s champion took plenty of time at his next try, and made a splendid put. He had exceeded Pete’s best attempt and there was a breathless silence around the ring as the tape was adjusted. Then,
“Forty-five feet two inches,” said the judge.
The Robinson trainer, who had looked anxious a moment since, smiled demurely. Over on the starting line the half-milers were being placed. Along the length of the stands the spectators were leaving their seats here and there. Pete stepped into the seven-foot circle for his last try. Tommy, a few feet away, watched him eagerly. With the shot in his right hand, Pete looked across and dropped his left eyelid in a portentous wink.
Tommy’s heart sank. If Pete would only stop his fooling for a minute, he thought, and really put his heart into it! And while the thought came to him, Pete was hopping across the ring and poising himself for an instant at the front edge. Then his body swung around, his right arm shot out like a steel spring, and the shot went arching over the ground. Tommy’s heart leaped into his throat and then thumped wildly. From the stands whose occupants were near enough to be able to follow the shot-putting came a great roar of applause. Tommy, with his eyes fixed intently on the tape, felt a hand seize his arm and pull him around.
“Come along,” said Pete, “and find Nast.”
“Wait! Wait till we find out – ”
“Find out nothing,” said Pete. “Monroe can’t touch that put!”
But even as Tommy hung back the judge looked up from the tape with a smile on his face.
“Forty-five feet eleven inches!” he said.
“Oh, bully!” cried Tommy. “But Tiernan – ”
“Huh!” said Pete.
From across the field came the sharp report of the pistol sending the half-milers away, and as Pete and Tommy hurried to the tents the white-clad runners swept by in a bunch on the first of their two laps, Poor and Tolmann side by side in the lead, and Thatcher, Erskine’s main hope, running warily well toward the rear. Around the turns they went and entered the back-stretch, hundreds of voices urging them on.
Allan, a depressed-looking figure in his dragging drab gown, met them as they crossed the track. There was no use asking him whether he had received the longed-for message; one glance at his face was sufficient. Pete took him aside out of the throng.
“You’re going to run, Allan,” he said, in low tones, “so get warmed up. Now, don’t ask any questions, for I can’t answer ’em yet. Just do as I tell you. It’s all right; you’re going to run, and if you don’t win out I’ll – I’ll lick you!”
The expression of hope which had at first leaped into Allan’s face died out again, but a look of curiosity remained.
“What – what do you mean?” he asked, wonderingly.
“Just what I say. You’re going to run, and if you want to do anything in the race get your muscles stretched. Let go of me; I’m in a hurry. Have you seen Nast?”
“I’ve found him,” said Tommy, hurrying up. “He’s gone over to the finish. Here come the half-milers. Track, there!”
Once more the runners sped past, but now they were no longer bunched together. In front, leading by half a dozen yards, ran Poor. Next came Thatcher, then a Robinson man, then Tolmann. Behind Tolmann the rest of the field pegged away, already out of the reckoning, barring accidents.
“All out for the two miles!” bawled the clerk.
Pete shot a glance at Tommy and the latter nodded. Together they turned away.
“Get a move on, Allan,” cried Pete. “Don’t stand there like a wooden Indian!” Allan, his face expressing wonder and returning hope, slipped quickly out of his dressing-gown.
“I guess you’re joking, Pete,” he said, “but – ”
“Is Mr. Ware here?” piped a shrill voice, and the blue-coated messenger boy pushed his way through the throng about the tents. “Telegram for Mr. Ware!”
With a cry Allan turned and seized the envelope from the boy’s hands and tore it open. Under the gaze of dozens of curious eyes, he read the words on the still damp sheet of yellow paper and turned with exultant eyes to Pete and Tommy, who had paused at the edge of the track.
“It’s all right!” he cried. “Where’s Nast?” And he sped off around the track. Tommy and Pete followed, and the latter, as he went, took a folded sheet of foolscap from his pocket and tore it into tiny pieces.
“Hurry up for the two miles!” bawled the clerk again.
When Allan reached the finish he was unable for a moment to reach Professor Nast, for the half-milers were tearing down the home-stretch and the crowd was thick about the tape. Shouts of triumph, roars of applause, arose. Down the cinders, their straining forms throwing long wavering shadows before them, came Thatcher, Tolmann, and a Robinson runner, the first two almost side by side, the third man four or five yards behind. Then, in an instant more, the red string fluttered away and Thatcher raced over the line, a winner by a bare yard over his team-mate.
“Eight more points!” cried Tommy, gleefully. “Who knows how the shot-put came out?”
“We got first and third,” answered Hal, turning. “Hello, Tommy, is that you?” But Tommy was too busy casting up figures on his score to do more than nod.
“Was Pete first?” he asked in a moment.
“First! Gosh, he was first by almost a foot. Tiernan fouled on his last try, and – ”
