On Your Mark! A Story of College Life and Athletics

Mr. Guild heard the story a few days later, when the quartet drove out to Hillcrest in a rattle-trap carryall and spent the afternoon. This was the second visit the fellows had made to the owner of the ducks since the beginning of the term. Mr. and Mrs. Guild had been in the South for two months, and after their return, in February, the snow had made the roads almost impassable. Hal and Tommy had been introduced on the occasion of the previous visit and had been cordially welcomed. Mr. Guild enjoyed the story of the bell-ringing and laughed heartily over it.

“That’s a better joke, Burley,” he said, “than that drowning business of yours. That was a trifle too grim to be wholly humorous. And when I remember the way I had the river dragged for your lifeless body, and expected to see it every time the men drew the grapples up, I – well, I hope your dinner the other night choked you.”

But it hadn’t. The dinner had passed off very successfully, and save that Hal had partaken of too much pie and had sat up in bed until three o’clock in the morning well doubled over, it had been an affair worthy of being long remembered. Even Pete, who claimed the right to be severely critical, had found nothing to find fault with, save, perhaps, the fact that in winning the banquet he had unwittingly provided the money to pay for it!

The second week in March witnessed the return of the track team candidates to practise in the gymnasium. Spring was unusually late that year – perhaps you recollect the fact? – and several feet of snow hid the ground until well toward the last of March. But meanwhile the candidates, thirty-eight in number, were divided into two squads and were daily put through chest-weight and dumb-bell exercises and sent careening around the running track. Allan, who since his failure to “make good” – in the language of the undergraduate – had been somewhat disgusted and down in the mouth, with the return to practise experienced a renewal of faith in himself and his abilities. Billy Kernahan laughed at his pessimistic utterances and assured him that outdoor work would do wonders for him.

Meanwhile Hal was hard at work with the freshman baseball squad and was turning out to be something of a “star” at the bat. Tommy, who during the winter months had found much difficulty in keeping himself busy, was as happy as a lark, since the awakening activity in athletics, the class debates and the final debate with Robinson afforded him opportunities to perform wonderful feats of reporting and gave him almost as much work to do as even he could desire.

Pete was left forlorn. Of the quartet he alone had no interest in life save study; and without wishing to be hard on Pete, I am nevertheless constrained to say that in his case study as an interest was something of a failure. He managed to stand fairly well in class, but this was due rather to an excellent memory than to any feats of severe application. When, toward the last of March, the baseball men and the track team went outdoors, he was more deserted than ever. Hal and Allan were inaccessible to him save in the evenings, and even then insisted on studying. As for Tommy —

“You might as well try to put your thumb on a flea as to try and locate Tommy,” he growled aggrievedly. “I tried to meet up with him on Monday, and the best I could do was to find out where he had been last seen on Saturday. I haven’t caught up with him yet, by ginger!”

“Why don’t you go in for something?” asked Hal. “Try baseball.”

“Baseball!” grunted Pete. “What do I know about baseball? It would take me a month to learn the rudiments of the game. I’ll go out for spring football practise next month, but that only lasts a couple of weeks, they say, and after that I guess I’ll pack up and go home.”

“Try golf,” said Allan, with a wicked smile. Pete snorted.

“I’d look well hitting a little ball with a crooked stick, wouldn’t I?” he asked disgustedly. “No; I may be a blamed fool, but I know better than to make such a show of myself as that.”

In the end Pete found an interest, and the manner of it was strange. It happened in this wise.

It was a few days before the class games. If his friends would not come to him, Pete could, at least, go to his friends. And so he had got into the way of walking out to the field in the afternoon and watching Hal on the diamond or Allan on the track. Sometimes he had a word or two with them; but at all events it was better, he thought, than moping about the college. The scene was a lively and, when the weather was bright, a pretty one. To-day the sky was almost cloudless, the sun shone warmly and there was a quality to the air that made one want to do great things, but yet left one content to do nothing.

When Pete approached the field he saw that the varsity and freshman baseball teams were both at practise, that the lacrosse candidates – whose antics always amused him – were racing madly about at the far corner of the enclosure, and that the track men were on hand in force. The scene was full of life and color and sound. Pete broke into song:

Sam Bass was born in Indiana, it was his native home,And at the age of seventeen young Sam began to roam;He hit the trail for Texas a cowboy for to be,And a kinder-hearted feller you’d never hope to see.

Pete’s voice was untrained but hearty. Had the tune been more melodious the effect would possibly have been more pleasing. As it was, the adventures of Sam Bass were chanted – as they always have been where Pete came from – in a melancholy reiteration of some half-dozen notes that threatened in the course of time to become terribly monotonous.

Sam used to own a thoroughbred known as the Denton mare;He matched her in scrub races and took her to the fair.He always coined the money and spent —

The song died away to a low rumble as Pete stooped and picked up a battered sphere of lead which lay on the sod before him. It was surprisingly heavy and he wondered what it was. Then his gaze fell on a lime-marked circle a few yards away, and it dawned upon him that the thing he held was a sixteen-pound shot, such as he had seen the fellows throw. Near-by the sod was dented and torn where the weight had struck. Pete hefted the thing in one hand and then the other. Then he raised it head-high and threw it toward the circle. It narrowly missed smashing the stop-board. Pete took up his song once more:

He started for the Collins ranch, it was the month of May,With a herd of Texas cattle, the Black Hills for to see.

He picked up the shot again and looked about him. There was nobody near, and of those at a distance none was paying him any attention. So he laid his pipe on the ground, balanced the shot in his right hand, stepped to the front of the circle and sent it through the air. It described a good deal of an arc and came down about eight paces away. Pete was sure he could beat that, so he strolled over and recovered the weight, and, humming lugubriously the while, strolled back and tried it over again. This time it went a few feet farther and Pete was encouraged. He took off his coat and rolled his sleeves up, spat on his hands and seized that lump of lead with determination.

Up near the finish of the mile, by the side of the track, Allan was in conversation with Kernahan. Suddenly he stopped, smiled, and pointed down the field.

“For goodness’ sake,” he exclaimed, “look at Pete Burley trying to put the shot!”

Billy turned and watched. When the shot had landed, he asked:

“Has he ever tried that before?”

“No, indeed; Pete’s stunt is football.” Kernahan smiled.

“Sure. I remember him now. Well, you try a few sprints of thirty yards or so, and I guess that’ll do for to-day. That stride’s coming along all right; don’t be in too big a hurry. To-morrow do a slow mile and a few starts. Then you’d better knock off until the meeting.”

Allan nodded, turned and jogged away up the track. Billy strolled toward Pete. When he drew near his ears were greeted with a plaintive wail:

Sam Bass was born in Indiana, it was his native home,And at the age of seventeen young Sam began to roam;He hit the trail —

Away sped the shot, and fell with a thud fully thirty feet distant. Pete grunted. Billy’s face lighted. Pete wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of one big hand and strolled after the shot. When he turned back he saw the trainer. He looked somewhat abashed and showed a disposition to drop the weight where he stood. But he thought better of it.

“Taking a little exercise,” he explained, carelessly.

Billy nodded.

“Good idea,” he said. “Don’t throw it, but push it right away from you as though you were punching some one. You get it too high.”

“Oh, I was just fooling with it,” said Pete.

“I know; but you try it, and don’t let it go so high.”

The first attempt was a dismal failure, the shot scarcely covering twenty feet. Billy’s presence embarrassed the performer.

“Try it again,” said Billy. Pete hesitated. Then,

“All right,” he said, cheerfully.

This time he did better than ever, and Billy paced off the distance.

“About thirty-two feet,” he announced. “That’ll do for to-day.”

“Huh?” said Pete.

“That’s enough for this time. You don’t want to lame your muscles, if you haven’t done it already.”

“Oh, my muscles will stand it,” answered Pete. “Do ’em good to get lame, I guess.” But Billy shook his head.

“No, that won’t do. You leave off now and report to me to-morrow at four-thirty.”

“What for?” asked Pete, in surprise.

“For practise. We’ll try you in the meet next Friday.”

“No, I guess not,” said Pete, shaking his head. “If you had a roping contest I might try my hand, but these athletic stunts have me beat.”

“Never mind about that,” answered the trainer, “you do as I say. We need you, and we’re going to have you. Four-thirty, remember; and you’d better get some togs.”

He nodded and walked away. Pete, staring after him, expressed his surprise by a long whistle.

CHAPTER XX

TRACK AND FIELD

The class games were notable that spring merely because they brought into sudden prominence a new and promising candidate in the shot-putting event, one Peter Burley, ’07, of Blackwater, Colo. To be sure, Pete didn’t break any records, nor did he come out first, but he contributed one point to the scant sum of the freshman class total by taking third place with a put of thirty-nine feet, four and one-half inches. Pete’s appearance in athletic circles was a surprise to the college at large, and those who remembered his prowess at football and took his size and apparent strength into consideration jumped to the conclusion that here was a “dark horse” that was going to carry everything before him and break the college record into minute particles. Personally, Pete viewed his participation as a good joke, but he wasn’t quite certain whom the joke was on.

It was evident that he had it in him to become a first-rate man at the weights, and Kernahan viewed his “find” with much satisfaction. Erskine had for two years past been rather weak in that line of athletics, and Billy had visions of developing the big Westerner into a phenomenal shot-putter and hammer-thrower; though, for the present, at least, he said nothing to Pete about the hammer, for fear the latter would mutiny. Pete had had only three days of practise under Billy’s instruction prior to the class games, but in that time he had mastered one or two of the principal points and had thereby added seven feet to his best performance of Monday.

Billy was more than satisfied, the rival shot men, who had viewed Pete’s appearance among them at first with amused indifference, were worried, and Pete was – But truly it is hard to say what Pete was. The whole thing was something of a joke to him, and possibly mild amusement was his principal sensation, although he was probably glad to be able to please the trainer, who had taken a good deal of trouble with him, and to add a point to the tally of his class.

But after the class games amusement gave place to surprise and dismay, for Billy informed him that the spring meeting would take place a week later, and that by diligent practise meanwhile he ought to be able to add another two feet to his record. Pete had been laboring under the impression that his troubles were over with the class games, and he promptly rebelled. But rebellion didn’t work with Billy; he was used to it. He had a method of getting his own way in things that was a marvel of quiet effectiveness; and so Pete concluded when, on the next Monday, he was once more out on the field “tossing the cannon ball,” as he sarcastically called it.

All that week, up to the very morning of the spring track meeting, he stood daily in the seven-foot circle and practised with the shot, while Kernahan patiently coached him. Pete had the height, build and strength for the work, but it was the hardest kind of a task for him to grasp the subtleties of the hop and the change of feet. I am inclined to think that Billy’s oft-repeated explanations went for little, and that in the end – but this was not until he had been at practise for almost a month – he learned the tricks himself by constant experimenting.

The actual putting was very soon mastered, but for weeks Pete’s best efforts were spoiled because he either overstepped the ring or left himself too far from the front of it. But when the spring meeting came he climbed to second place, Monroe alone keeping ahead of him. The latter’s best put was forty-three feet ten inches, and Pete’s forty-one feet three inches.

Monroe seemed to Pete to view the latter’s efforts as beneath notice, and Pete resented that from the first. As was to be expected by any one knowing Pete, Monroe’s attitude was accepted as a challenge, and Pete vowed he would beat the college crack if he had to work all night to do it. From that time on Billy found no necessity for pleading; Pete was always on hand when half past four came around, and none was more earnest than he, none worked so hard. Pete had found his interest.

Meanwhile Allan had done fairly well in both meets. In the class games he had entered for the two miles and the mile, had won the first by a bare yard from Rindgely and in the latter had finished third behind Hooker and Harris. At Billy’s advice he relinquished the mile event thereafter and became a two-miler pure and simple. As Billy pointed out, either Rindgely or Hooker – and possibly Harris, who was coming on fast – was capable of beating Robinson at the mile, and it was better for Allan to put all efforts into the two miles, in which, so far as was known, Robinson at present excelled. Allan had hard luck at the spring meeting, getting away badly in the first place and taking a tumble in the next to the last lap that put him out of the race so far as the places were concerned. Conroy staggered in ten yards ahead of Rindgely, Harris securing third place, and Allan finishing a poor fourth.

By this time the training table was started, and Pete, much to his delight, temporarily deserted the freshman club table up-stairs and moved to the first-floor front room, where Allan, Rindgely, Hooker, Harris, Conroy, Stearns, Thatcher, Poor, Leroy, Monroe, Long, and several others whose names we have not heard, were congregated under the vigilant eyes of Billy Kernahan. I don’t think Pete was properly impressed with the honor conferred upon him by his admission to the training table, but he was glad to be with Allan again and rather enjoyed the novelty of having his meals arranged for him. If it had not been that training required the relinquishment of his beloved corn-cob pipe, I think Pete in those days would have been perfectly happy.

Meanwhile, at another training table farther around the bend of Elm Street, Hal was one of the stars of the freshman nine. Of the quartet, Tommy only was not head over ears in athletics, but the fact didn’t trouble him a scrap. He had all he could do – and a trifle more – and was laboring, besides, under the harmless delusion that the college’s success on diamond, track, and river depended largely upon his supervision and advice. Whenever he had time, which wasn’t very often, he delighted to stand beside the lime-marked ring and offer gems of instruction in the art of putting the shot to Pete. And Pete, who was miserable without companionship, stood it smilingly for the sake of Tommy’s presence. In the evenings Tommy frequently found a moment or two in which to look up Allan or Hal and give them the benefit of his advice regarding playing second base or running the two miles. But those young gentlemen exhibited a strange and lamentable impatience, and Tommy quite often left their presence under compulsion or just ahead of a flying boot.

Meanwhile the spring vacation came and went. Of the quartet, Hal and Tommy went home, and Allan and Pete stayed at college, Allan from motives of economy and Pete because nothing better offered.

After recess baseball held the boards and the varsity team was half-way through its schedule by the first week in May, and had but two defeats behind it. On the track the candidates were put through their paces six days a week. Erskine was almost sure of victories in the sprints, equally certain of defeats in the middle distances, expected to win the mile, was in grave doubt as to the two miles, and hoped to share the hurdles with her opponent. In the field events, the high jump alone was certain to yield a first to the Purple. The pole vault, broad jump, and both weight events were of doubtful outcome. As Tommy figured it out in the columns of “his” paper about this time, Erskine had a chance of winning by seven points. But as second and third places were almost impossible to apportion with any accuracy, this forecast was not of much value. The dual games with Robinson came on May 28th. A fortnight before that Allan’s work was stretched over six days, as follows:

Monday, a two-mile run at an easy pace.

Tuesday, a fast mile, followed by an easy three-quarters.

Wednesday, a hard, fast mile.

Thursday, two miles and a half in easy time.

Friday, a mile and a half at medium speed.

Saturday, a time trial over the two miles.

This was hard work and lots of it, but Allan’s physical condition could scarcely have been bettered, and never, from the beginning of outdoor practise until the big event was over with, did he go “fine” for a moment. Twelve days before the meet Allan had his last trial, and when, still running strongly, he crossed the finish line, Billy’s watch clicked at 9:53⅝.

Billy smiled cheerfully enough, but down in his heart he was disappointed. He had expected better things.

CHAPTER XXI

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW

I have never found any one with sufficient courage to defend the winters at Centerport. At the best they are bearable, at the worst they are beyond description. Nothing any one might say would be too harsh to apply to what the residents call “a hard winter.”

In short, from January to April the weather is everything detestable, and reminds one of a very bad little boy who has made up his very bad little mind to be as very bad as he possibly can.

And then – as like as not between a sunset and a sunrise – spring appears, and it is just as though the very bad little boy had grown sorry and repentant and had made up his mind to be very, very good and sweet and kind, and never do anything to grieve his dear, dear parents any more. And there is a soft, warm breeze blowing up the river valley, the grass on the southern side of the library is unmistakably green, a bluebird, or maybe a valiant robin, is singing from a branch of the big elm at the corner of the chapel, and there is a strong, heartening aroma of moist earth in your nostrils. And you know that from thenceforth until you leave the old green town the last of June your lines are cast in pleasant places and that it is going to be very easy to be happy and good.

Well, I suppose there are other places where spring is superlatively pleasant, where the trees and sod are extravagantly green, and where youth finds life so well worth living. Only – I have never found them. And I doubt if there is an old Erskine man the country over who can recollect the month of May at Centerport without a little catch of the breath and a sudden lighting of the eye.

For in those Mays his memory recalls Main Street and the yard were canopied with a swaying lacework of whispering elm branches, through which the sunlight dripped in golden globules and splashed upon the soft, velvety sod or moist gravel and spread itself in limpid pools. And the ivy was newly green against the old red brick buildings, the fence below College Place was lined with fellows you knew, and the slow-moving old blue watering-cart trundled by with a soft and pleasant sound of splashing water. Fellows called gaily to you as you crossed the yard, the muslin curtains at the windows of Morris and Sesson were a-flutter in the morning breeze, and from Elm Street floated the musical and monotonous chime of the scissor-grinder’s bells. What if the Finals were close at hand? The sky was blue overhead, the spring air was kind and – you were young!

I think something of this occurred to Allan when, at a quarter of ten on a mild, bright morning three days before the dual meet, he crossed the street from his room, books under arm, and turned into College Place.

Perched on the fence in front of the chapel were Clarke Mason, the editor of the Purple, and Stearns, the track team captain. After exchanging greetings, Allan dropped his books back of the fence and swung himself onto the top rail.

The sun was pleasant, the ten o’clock bell would not ring for several minutes, and there was an invitation in the way in which Mason edged away from the post. Allan was a warm admirer of Mason, and the fact that, as was natural, he seldom had an opportunity to speak with him made him glad of the present opportunity. There was but one topic of overwhelming interest at present, and that was the track and field meet with Robinson. With two successive defeats against them, and the added result of the last football game still in memory, it is not strange that Erskine men had set their hearts on administering a trouncing to the Brown and regaining something of their old athletic prestige. The boat race and the baseball contests were too far distant for present consideration.

“I don’t know when there’s been so much enthusiasm over the athletic meet as there is this year,” said Mason. “And it’s bound to tell, too. I’ve noticed that when the college as a whole wakes up and wants a thing it generally comes pretty near getting it.”

“We wanted the football game badly enough,” said Stearns.

“Yes, just as we want all of them, but there wasn’t the enthusiasm there has been some years. I think we expected to win, and so didn’t get much wrought up over it. But next year – although you and I won’t be here to see it, Walt – I’ll bet the college will be red-headed over football; there’ll be mass-meetings and the band up from Hastings, and Ware here will be marching out to the field singing ‘Glory, Glory for the Purple’ at the top of his lungs. And the team will just naturally go in and win.”

“At that rate,” ventured Allan, “we ought to lick Robinson on Saturday, for, as you say, the fellows are all worked up over it.”

“I think we’re going to,” answered Mason, with quiet conviction. “But, of course, I don’t know so much about it as Walt here, and he says I’m off my reckoning.”

Allan looked at the captain with surprise. All along Stearns had displayed a confidence that, in Allan’s case at least, had been a great incentive to hard work. Stearns frowned a little as he answered:

“Oh, well, maybe to-morrow I’ll be hopeful again. A fellow can’t help having a spell of nerves now and then, you know.”

“Well, if it’s only that, we’ll forgive you,” Mason replied. “I thought maybe something had happened. Things have a way of happening, I’ve noticed, just before a meet; Jones lames his ankle, Brown is put on probation, Smith is protested, or something else unforeseen plays havoc.”

“That’s so,” said Stearns, emphatically, “and maybe one reason I feel uneasy is because nothing has happened; Robinson hasn’t protested any one and no one has sprained his ankle or got water on the knee. I think I’d feel safer if something of the sort had occurred.”

“Well, I guess you’re safe now,” laughed Mason. “The men have quit practise and Robinson’s opportunity for protesting our best men has passed.”