Barbour Ralph Henry
On Your Mark! A Story of College Life and Athletics
CHAPTER XVI
THE INDOOR MEETING
Mechanics’ Hall, Boston, was filled from floor to gallery, from doors to stage. The hum of voices, the fluttering of programs, the slow bellow of the announcer as, with megaphone at mouth, he gave the result of the events, made a strange medley of sound.
From one corner of the floor to another there ran diagonally a lime-marked lane. Since half past seven white-trunked figures had rushed, half a dozen at a time, down this lane at top speed, had flung themselves panting, with outstretched arms, against the mattresses at the end, and had turned and trotted back to the dressing-rooms.
The supply had seemed inexhaustible. Heat after heat had been run in the Forty Yards Novice, heat after heat in the Forty Yards Invitation, heat after heat in the Forty Yards Handicap, and now the hurdles were in place, the pistol was cracking forth, and white-clad forms were flying breathlessly over the bars and breasting the red string at the finish.
At each report of the pistol the center gallery leaped to its feet, the hurdlers sprang into sight from below and sped away like arrows across the yellow floor. Hurdles crashed, the crowd shouted, the racers flung their arms at the tape and collapsed against the padded wall at the end of the lane, and the center gallery sank into its seats again and rustled its programs. And the announcer lifted his crimson trumpet:
“Forty-five Yards Hurdles – fourth heat won by No. 390, No. 3 second; time, 6⅖ seconds.”
There were dozens of colleges, schools, and associations represented there that night, and hundreds of competitors. There was the blue Y of Yale, the crimson H of Harvard, the red C of Cornell, the green D of Dartmouth, the purple E of Erskine, the brown R of Robinson, and many, many other insignia flaunted on heaving breasts.
Thirty-odd officials, in immaculate evening clothes, lent a note of sobriety to the colorful scene, while a blue-coated policeman, whose duty it was to guard the long table of mugs and tankards, stood out intensely against the gleam and glitter of the prizes. On the big stage, the sloping bank of watchers looked from the floor like a bed of waving somber-hued flowers. From a corner of the balcony came the strains of brazen music.
The jumping standards were set and the competitors ranged themselves along the edge of the track, their sweaters and dressing-gowns of all colors thrown loosely about their bare shoulders. The Clerk of Course could be heard at the dressing-room door summoning the men for the next event:
“All out for the two miles!”
The sloping corners of the track rang with the footsteps of the candidates as they warmed up. There were fifteen entries, and among them were men from Harvard, Yale, Cornell, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Phillips Exeter Academy, and Erskine College. Erskine’s representative was rather nervous as, with his number flapping at his back, he was assigned the place at the pole in the front line. Beside him was a Cornell runner whose prowess was well known, and Allan Ware marveled at his own temerity. Surely, he had no chance against the Cornell man, nor, for that matter, against several of the others. Well, he would run as well as he knew how and take his beating philosophically.
The fact was, that the intense excitement was unnerving him. And that was why, when the starter had cried “Set!” Allan dashed forward, taking half the line with him. For this misdemeanor he and three others were promptly relegated to the last row. Then the command came again and the pistol cracked.
At the first turn Allan had to fight to keep from being hustled from the track. After the next corner the runners had settled down to their work, a New York man making easy pace. Allan was well in front. The nervousness had left him now and he had no thought for the cheering spectators, for the blaring strains from the band, for anything, in short, save the struggle on hand. Lap after lap was reeled off until the race was half finished. Allan was still holding his own, with the consciousness of much power in reserve. The New York man still kept the lead, while close on his heels ran one of the Cornell contingent.
Presently a Yale man fought his way up to Allan, and for half a lap they contested fifth place. Then, at a turn, the Yale man took the bank and slid into the lead, and Allan was sixth. He expected changes ahead. Of course the New York runner would not attempt to keep the lead much longer. He would drop back, Allan would overhaul the Yale chap, and in the last two laps he would call on the reserve power he was certain he had and fight it out to the finish.
He looked back. The nearest runner was several yards away and didn’t appear dangerous. The relative positions remained unchanged for another lap, and then things began to happen.
The Yale man dropped back, a second Cornell man – Allan recognized him as the one who had been beside him at the start – spurted into third place, and Allan found himself still running fifth. He had lost count of the laps, but believed there could not be more than two left.
So he started to crawl up. At the next corner, that by the dressing-rooms, he passed the Cornell man who had been second for so long; his duty was done and he was easing up on his pace. Down the stretch Allan gained on a Technology runner, but failed to pass him. Suddenly the gong announcing the last lap clanged. Allan glanced across the hall. The New York man was still in the lead, and was increasing that lead at every stride.
Allan threw back his head and fought for third place. On the next stretch footsteps sounded behind him. At the first corner Allan just succeeded in keeping the lead; on the short stretch, a Yale man passed him and left him as though standing. It was all up now; he was fifth, and there was no chance of bettering his position. The leader, well ahead of the Cornell man, was taking the last corner. The Yale man who had just passed Allan was taking third place hand over fist. The Technology runner was plainly faltering, and yet, thought Allan savagely, here was he, with all sorts of power of lung and muscle left, dragging along behind him!
He clasped his hands tighter and threw himself forward. Fourth place was better than fifth, he told himself, and at least he would not be beaten by a man who was ready to fall. So up he went, working as hard to beat out the Technology runner as though first place was at stake. And beat him he did, and turned off of the track and walked back to the dressing-room apparently as untired as when he had started.
“You lost that race,” said Kernahan, “when you lost your place in the first row. But don’t you care; you’ve learned a thing or two, and one of them’s to wait for the pistol.”
“But I’m not decently winded,” Allan complained. “I could run the mile now, and yet those chaps beat me.”
“Sprinting ability is what you’ve got to learn, my boy. And with three months before the dual – ”
“Hang the dual!” said Allan, petulantly. “I wanted to win this.”
“Well, there’s the mile yet,” said Billy, soothingly.
But the mile brought Allan scant satisfaction. He was given a handicap of thirty-five yards, and, although this time he was careful to wait for the pistol, he came to the conclusion when half the distance was run that he might as well drop out of the race. There were almost fifty entries, and it seemed less a race than a fast-moving procession. The turns were always filled with fellows elbowing and fighting, and after the half-distance it was hard to tell who the leaders were, so close they were to the tail-enders.
Rindgely and Harris had also entered, and about the only satisfaction Allan was able to gather was derived from the fact that he had them beaten from the start. But the smaller handicaps allowed those youths had something to do with that. Allan never knew what number he was at the finish, and didn’t much care.
In the dressing-room, Harris, Rindgely, Long, and Monroe – the latter the only Erskine entry who had won a place – were finding balm in the fact that Robinson hadn’t showed up in a single event.
“Wait until the team race, though,” said Rindgely, darkly. “That’s where they’ll get us; you’ll see.”
“Don’t believe it,” said Harris, stoutly. “When does it come off?”
“After this, I think,” said Long. “Who’s got a program?”
“That’s right,” said Monroe. “Hello, Ware! Say, that was a perfect mess, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was,” growled Allan. “I never knew whether I was running this lap or the last one.”
“Or the one ahead,” added Harris.
“Thought you were going to do something,” said Rindgely. “You had a good chance.”
“Did I?” Allan responded, with intense sarcasm. “All right, only I didn’t know it.”
“Let’s get out of here and see the Harvard and Penn race,” Long suggested. “Where’s our team?”
“They’re out there somewhere. Thatcher says we’re going to get it put all over us,” said Allan.
“Thatcher’s an old raven,” said Harris, as they crowded out to where they could watch the race. “If he runs as well as he croaks, we’re all right.”
Harvard secured the race with University of Pennsylvania, and though the result was not long in doubt, yet the crimson-clad runners were forced to better the record by three-fifths of a second. Then the clerk’s voice was heard at the dressing-room door:
“All out for Erskine-Robinson Team Race! All out!”
Of Erskine’s relay team, only Thatcher, the captain, was an experienced runner. The others – Poor, Gibbons, and Tolmann – had earned the right to represent the college at the trials, but for all of that were unknown quantities. They were all of them, Thatcher included, small men; Poor was little over five feet in height, and looked as though he had never had enough to eat. As they trotted around the track, getting warmed up, Robinson’s candidates overtopped them to a man. It was a big, long-limbed quartet that Robinson had sent, and had the result depended on height and length of leg alone the Brown would have had the race won at the start.
Allan had secured a place near the front of the throng at the dressing-room door, and beside him, noticeable because of the evening clothes which he wore, was one of the officials, an inspector whose name was down on the program as “Horace L. Pearson, N. Y. A. C.” It was while the two teams were still warming up that Allan heard his name spoken, and turned to find Mr. Pearson in conversation with Harris.
“Beg your pardon,” the inspector was saying, “but the man beyond you there is Ware, of your college, isn’t he?” But he wasn’t looking in Allan’s direction at all.
“No, sir,” answered Harris, “that’s Rindgely.”
“Sure of it?”
“Quite, sir,” replied Harris, smiling.
“Hm! I saw he was down on the card as Rindgely, but I thought maybe it was a mistake. What does the other man, Ware, look like?”
“He’s here somewhere,” said Harris. And then his voice dropped and Allan, looking carefully away, felt the inspector’s gaze upon his face. He wondered what it might mean and why Rindgely had been mistaken for him, but his speculation was short-lived, for at that moment the pistol cracked and two runners, one with his white shirt crossed with a brown silk ribbon and the other bearing a purple E on his breast, sprang forward and fought for the lead at the first turn. The Erskine man was Thatcher and his opponent was named Guild. As they reached the other end of the track and sped past the dressing-room, conflicting shouts of encouragement from Erskine and Robinson supporters followed them.
Thatcher had secured the pole at the start and had leaped into the lead at the turn. He was still ahead, but Guild was close behind him, his long strides seeming to be always on the point of taking him past, yet never doing so. Thatcher’s plan was plainly to hand over the race to the next runner of his team with a good, big margin of gain, trusting that, if unable to increase the advantage, the other Erskine men would at least hold what they had. But the big gain wasn’t forthcoming yet.
As he neared the starting-point and the finish of the first of his two laps he strove desperately to leave his opponent, but it was not until the last lap was a third run that daylight opened up between the two. The Robinson chap was proving himself a worthy foe. Half-way around the last lap there was ten feet between Purple and Brown. From there on down to the mark, where the next two men stood with eager, outstretched hands, Thatcher gained and gained; but he had commenced late, and when Guild touched the hand of his team-mate and fell over into the arms of the Robinson trainer he was only fifteen yards to the bad.
Gibbons, short of leg and rather heavy of build, was flying over the first turn as though possessed, and behind him pattered Thorpe of Robinson. Down the stretch they flew, while the band was drowned by the shouts of the onlookers. It was a pretty contest that, even though to discerning ones, at least, the end was not in doubt. Gibbons looked like a small whirlwind, and gave every indication of killing himself before the second lap was finished, but Thorpe, with long and easy strides, ate up the interval between them foot by foot, and when the second lap began was in position to take the lead whenever he wanted to.
Half-way down the side he did so. Gibbons fought him off desperately for an instant, but at the turn Robinson led by a yard. Then it was that Gibbons surprised even his trainer, for, instead of steadily dropping back, he refused to yield an inch and chased Thorpe down to the finish like an avenging fate, crossing the line a bare yard behind him.
That yard of advantage was five yards half through the next lap, Tolmann failing to prove a match for Brine of Robinson. Foot after foot and yard after yard opened up between them, and when the last lap began the Brown’s runner was an eighth of a lap ahead.
“Well, that’s settled right now,” said Long, who had jostled his way to Allan’s side. “If we still had Thatcher we might stand some show, but I guess Poor can’t cut down that lead enough to make it look even close.”
“Thatcher’s idea was all right,” said Allan, “but he didn’t know how good his man was. Robinson’s next man is her captain, I think, and I suppose he ought to be the best of the lot.”
“He ought to be, but maybe he isn’t. Poor is a plucky little chap, and maybe he’ll give Jones a run for his money. Look at him!”
At the other end of the hall Erskine’s last hope was leaning over the mark, one slim white arm thrust forward and one reaching impatiently back toward where Tolmann, swaying and gasping, was vainly striving to save the race. Poor looked plucky without a doubt, and when, after what seemed an age, Tolmann struck weakly at his hand and staggered off the track, he was off like a shot, his thin legs twinkling like a salmon-colored streak as he followed the Robinson captain. The latter was almost a quarter of a lap ahead and was running easily, yet keeping a watchful glance upon his opponent. And, as it proved, that watchful glance was not thrown away.
The band blared forth a two-step with might and main, supporters of the rival colleges clapped, shouted, and shrieked, and the runners’ shoes tap-tapped on the floor and pounded over the built-up corners.
And then, of a sudden, a roar started among the audience and gathered volume and swept deafeningly across the great hall, and Allan, raising himself on tiptoes, gave a shout of joy. For just an instant or two after passing the second turn the Robinson captain had become inattentive to his pursuer, and in that brief moment Poor had literally eaten up space with his flying feet until now twenty yards would have spanned the distance between them. Jones, warned by the applause, leaped ahead, but Poor refused to yield an inch he had gained. More than that, he kept on gaining.
The bell clanged the beginning of the last lap of the race and the Robinson runner swept over the line fifteen yards ahead of Poor, his long strides making the latter’s look ridiculously short by comparison. But if his strides were short, they were also rapid, and Poor, his little, weazened face screwed into an agony of effort, chased his opponent down in the next half lap, and at the second turn was barely two yards behind. Jones was plainly worried. As he pounded around the corner his right arm was thrust out in an involuntary effort to keep his opponent from passing him. But Poor was not able to do that on the turn, and for the next stretch their relative positions remained unchanged.
As they dashed by the group at the dressing-room door, Allan and Long and Harris and the others shrieked exhortations and encouragement to their runner. Then the next turn was taken, Jones stumbled, saved himself, and led the way down the last stretch, his head back, his mouth wide open, and his speed lessening at every stride.
But if he was ready to give up, so, too, was Poor, who had run a quarter of a lap farther than he. And all the way down that stretch the Robinson captain struggled and faltered and the Erskine runner dogged his steps, unable to pass him. And then something happened, and so quickly that it was all over before the sight had time to register the meaning of it on the brain.
Half-way over the turn, and twenty yards from the finish, Jones swayed, tripped, and rolled over to the edge of the track, and Poor, less than two yards behind him, plunged blindly over him, sprawled and rolled along for three yards, and then, in some strange manner, found his feet and took up the running again. So, too, did Jones, but the larger man had fallen more heavily, and for an instant remained dazed upon the floor.
That instant decided the race, for although he was up again almost before the audience had sensed the catastrophe, yet he had lost the lead. For the last few yards the two men, giddy, swaying, their heads fallen almost onto their breasts, strove weakly for the line. The next moment Poor threw out his arms and sprawled forward on his face across the chalk-mark and Jones, stumbling past him, fell, sliding on hands and knees to the edge of the track.
Down by the dressing-room door Allan and the others were whooping it up joyfully, for Erskine had turned defeat into victory and won the relay by a scant three yards!
CHAPTER XVII
ALLAN LEAVES THE CLUB TABLE
March winds are freakish, prankish things, and the wind in the face of which Allan crossed the yard one morning a fortnight or so after the indoor meeting was no exception. He was on his way from Grace Hall to the Chemical Laboratory for a ten o’clock, and at the corner of the chapel he passed a couple of fellows whom a casual glance showed him he did not know. But that he was not a stranger to one of them was soon proven. The wind, scurrying around the corner of the chapel, tossed him the following fragment of conversation with startling distinctness:
“Who’s that fellow, Steve?”
“Ware, a freshie; he runs, or tries to. He was in the mile and two miles at Boston week before last and didn’t do a thing in either of them. Guess the Athletic Association will take his job away now. They just employed him to keep him in college, I guess. This thing of giving fellows work just because – ”
The words ended as suddenly as they had begun, so far as Allan was concerned, and he strode on to the laboratory. But his cheeks were burning and his heart was filled with wrath. For the first time he realized that his employment by the E. A. A. had a suspicious look, to say the least, while it was even probable that what the fellow he had overheard thought was really true. He was angry at the unknown youth for saying what he had, angry with Stearns for placing him in such a questionable position, and angry at Professor Nast for countenancing it. He wondered whether all the fellows he knew or who knew him believed as did the fellow he had passed, that he was knowingly allowing the Athletic Association to present him with money he was not earning.
The blood dyed his face again, and he marveled at his blindness. Why had he not seen from the first that Stearns had secured him the place in the office merely to ensure his stay at college and his participation in the dual meet with Robinson? And hadn’t he more than half suspected all along? But no, he was guiltless of that charge. Credulous and blind he had been, but not dishonest. And dishonest he would not be now. He passed a miserable, impatient half-hour, and when it was over hurried to the office of the Athletic Association and found Professor Nast at his desk.
The professor was a mild-mannered little man, rather nervous and seemingly indecisive, but he was executively capable and had much sound common sense. He viewed Allan’s arrival with mild curiosity, nodded silently, and turned back to his work. But Allan didn’t allow him to continue it.
“How much am I worth here, sir, if you please?” he demanded, unceremoniously. The chairman looked somewhat startled and disconcerted.
“Why – er – that is a difficult question to answer, Mr. Ware. But if you – ah – consider that you are not being paid enough, I shall be glad to consider the matter of increased remuneration if you will make out an application in writing, stating – ”
“Well, is my work here worth a dollar an hour, sir?”
“Eh? A dollar an hour? I – er – But I think you are receiving that amount, are you not?”
“Yes, sir; and that’s what the trouble is.”
“Trouble? Suppose you explain what you mean.”
“Well, I – ” He hesitated for words an instant and then threw politeness to the winds. “You’ve made me do what isn’t honest, you and Stearns,” he charged, angrily. “You offered me the work here just to keep me in college, so I could run at your old meet, and you gave me a dollar an hour for work that any one would do for half that money. Oh, I know it’s lots my fault,” he went on, silencing the professor’s remonstrances. “I ought to have guessed it, but I didn’t. I didn’t think a thing about it until to-day I overheard a fellow say in plain words that I was taking money I wasn’t earning. That’s a nice thing to have fellows say about you, isn’t it? And I dare say the whole college thinks just as he does, and – and – ”
“Hold up a minute,” said the professor, finally making himself heard. “You’re accusing Mr. Stearns and me of pretty hard things. Let’s talk this over quietly. Sit down, please.”
Allan obeyed. The professor swung around in his chair until he faced him, clasped his hands over his vest, and gravely studied Allan’s angry countenance.
“I’m not sure that you – ah – have any right to come here and charge me – or Mr. Stearns – with unfair dealings. But I will accord you the right, Mr. Ware, for I see that there has been a mistake made. It was, however, a mistake and nothing more, I assure you. Neither Mr. Stearns nor I had any intention of deceiving you. Allow me to finish, please,” he added, as Allan made an impatient movement.
“It has been the custom here, of recent years, to give employment in this office to men who have needed the work, and preference has been given to athletes. If they have been paid more for their labor than that labor was really worth – and I am ready to grant that they usually have – the money with which they were paid has always come out of the general athletic fund and not from the college. I am not – ah – prepared to defend this custom; on the contrary, sir, I think it a very bad one, and I for one should be glad to see it discontinued. In your case, now, Mr. Stearns came and saw me and told me you needed employment. The place was vacant and I offered it to you at the terms which have always been paid. You are not earning one dollar an hour, Mr. Ware, and if you feel that you have been deceived by us, I am very sorry. No deception was intended on my part, and I am sure Mr. Stearns believed that you – er – understood the situation.”
“I didn’t, though,” answered Allan, somewhat conciliated by the other’s manner. “I didn’t dream of it. I – I did think the work was rather easy considering the pay, but I thought maybe it would get harder, and that – that I could make up. If I had known the truth, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with the work.”
“I am sorry, but, as I have said, there was no intent at deception. I offer you my apologies, and I am sure Mr. Stearns will be quite as regretful as I am. If there is anything I can do to better matters, I shall be delighted to do it, Mr. Ware.”
“Yes, sir, there is. I’d like to keep on with the work until I have squared myself.”
“You mean you want to work without wages?”
Allan nodded. The professor considered the matter for a while in silence. Then —
“If you insist,” he said, “we will make that arrangement. But there is another method that may answer fully as well. Are you averse to continuing the work at – er – a just remuneration?”
“N-no, I suppose not,” Allan replied. “I need the work, and if you’ll pay me only what it’s worth I’d like to go ahead with it.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, for you have been very conscientious, Mr. Ware, and your services in the office have become valuable to me. I should dislike to make a change. Supposing, then, you continue at – ah – fifty cents an hour? Would that be satisfactory?”
“Is it worth that much?” asked Allan, bluntly.
“Yes, it honestly is; it is worth quite that. Well, and in regard to – ah – let us say arrears; I am working on the compilation of a rather difficult lot of statistics which are to be incorporated into my report. You could assist me vastly with that matter and could work, say, an hour three evenings a week. In that way, it seems to me, you could very shortly ‘square’ yourself, as you term it, and could, to some extent, choose your own time for doing so. What do you – ah – think?”
Allan considered the matter. It sounded rather easy, and since an hour ago he had grown to view easy tasks with suspicion. But he could find no ground for objection, and in the end he accepted the proposal gratefully and stammered a somewhat lame apology for his hasty discourtesy. The Chairman of the Athletic Committee waved it politely aside.
“We will consider it settled, then,” he said. “This afternoon we will decide on the hours for the extra work. I’m glad you brought this matter up, Mr. Ware, for I think the time has come to do away with a pernicious custom. Good morning.”
On his way to his next recitation Allan reflected somewhat ruefully that under the new arrangement there was one thing which had been lost sight of, and that was a public vindication. As long as he continued to work in the office fellows would continue to think he was receiving money not earned. To be sure, he had the consolation of a clear conscience, but it was hard to have the fellows he knew and whose respect he craved think badly of him.
But there Allan was mistaken, for the story got out in short order – Tommy saw to that! – and it wasn’t long before he heard an account of the matter, in which he figured as a model of indignant virtue and a galley-slave to conscience, from a fellow whom he knew very slightly. After that he had no doubts about public vindication.
It was not a difficult matter to find three hours in the evening each week for the new labor, and he found it, since he had a fondness for mathematics, far more interesting than the daily letter-writing and clerical work. But five dollars a week wasn’t ten, and so, despite the protests of Pete and all the other members of the club table, he left the hospitality of Mrs. Pearson’s and went back to the college dining-hall, where he could, by careful management, make his monthly bill ridiculously small. Pete commanded and implored to be allowed to “fix things up” so that Allan need not leave the table; he almost wept; but Allan was obdurate. Pete even threatened to “let the table go hang” and return with Allan to Commons, but was finally dissuaded when Allan pointed out that in all probability he (Allan) would very shortly be taken onto the training-table of the track squad.
So Pete accepted the inevitable and draped Allan’s chair with some dozen yards of black crêpe, and allowed none to occupy it for a week of mourning. But Allan wasn’t a stranger to the table, for every Saturday night he returned there as Pete’s guest and sat in his old seat and was made much of by the crowd.
