On Your Mark! A Story of College Life and Athletics

They tried to tease Pete on the afternoon’s performance that evening, but Pete was invulnerable to gibes. The four had congregated in the “corral” and were hugging the stove closely, Pete sitting astride the stock saddle which, for want of a chair, he had lugged from its corner.

“Must have cost you something for sticks,” Tommy suggested.

“Must have cost the other fellows something,” laughed Hal. “I saw Rindgely lose three. You were a destructive chap, Pete.”

“Rindgely was plumb crazy,” answered Pete, with a broad smile. “Every time he got a new stick, I bust it for him. I don’t just know whether that’s good hockey, but I know it worked mighty well. But Rindgely’s got it in for me, all right.”

“He seems to have it in for me too,” said Allan, thoughtfully. “The other day he didn’t want to make pace for me when I tried the two miles, and acted nasty as you like afterward in the locker house.”

“He’s a queer customer,” said Tommy. “A pretty good fellow to keep away from. I don’t mean that there’s anything wrong with him, you know, but he’s awfully uncertain. You never can tell how he’s going to take a thing. Just after recess I met him one day, and asked him if he’d taken in the St. Thomas Club Indoor Meet – he lives in Brooklyn, you know – and he nearly took my head off; said he wasn’t home Christmas, and implied that it was none of my business. I told him I didn’t care a rap where he was.”

“That’s right, Tommy; don’t you let them monkey with you,” laughed Allan.

“Well, what did he want to jump on me for?” asked Tommy, warmly. “I didn’t care whether he went to the old meet or not; I just wanted to be polite. The reason I mentioned the meet was that he’d told about going the year before while he was at home, and I just happened to remember seeing something about it before Christmas. It’s an open meeting, you know, and they have a big card – weights, team races, boxing, and all sorts of stunts.”

“What is he, a miler?” asked Hal.

Tommy nodded.

“Guess that explains his cutting up with you, Allan; you beat him in the fall, didn’t you?”

“Yes, with a good big handicap.”

“Well, he’s afraid you’re going to cut him out of a place in the dual meet.”

“There’s no good reason why he should think so. He can beat me, I’m pretty sure. Besides, if Billy Kernahan has his way, I’ll be down only for the two miles at the dual.”

“We’re going to have a dandy article on the indoor meeting this week,” said Tommy.

“Wrote it yourself, eh?” suggested Hal.

“I suppose it will be like last year’s, though,” Tommy continued, ruefully. “We had two columns, with everything figured out finely: who was going to do what, and which fellows would win places. And then it came out all wrong.”

“Say, Thomas,” said Pete, when the laughter had subsided, “I don’t want to hurry you, but I’m getting the powerful hungers.”

“Yes, Tommy, how about that dinner at the Elm Tree?” chimed in Hal.

“He’s making money to pay for it,” said Allan.

“No, I’m not,” answered Tommy, sadly. “That’s the trouble. You’ll have to wait a bit, Pete; I’m dead broke, honest Injun!”

“All right; just so long as I get that feed. Better not put it off too long, though; I’m nicely conditioned, you know, since the Midyears, and there’s no telling what may happen to me.”

“That’s so,” Allan said. “A fellow that’s been drowned, suspended, and put on probation, all in two short months, is a pretty slippery customer.”

“Say, Allan,” said Tommy, reminiscently, “do you remember the night we waited up here for that duffer to come home?”

“The night he was drowned?” asked Allan. “Never’ll forget it. The way the wind howled and cut up was a caution; made me think of graveyards and – and corpses.”

“Me, too,” said Tommy. “I went back to the room and dreamed of Pete floating in my bath-tub, with his old smelly pipe in his mouth and his face all white and horrid. Every time he puffed on the pipe he winked his eye at me, and I woke up yelling like a good one.” Tommy arose from his seat and stood gazing into the flames. “It was a beast of a dream.”

“Must have been,” Hal responded, sympathetically. Pete puffed silently at the afore-mentioned pipe and grinned heartlessly. Tommy glanced over at him and commenced an aimless ramble about the room.

“I said then,” he went on, “that if Pete – Say, it’s getting beastly hot in here. Let’s have the door open.”

In spite of the protests, he opened the portal into the narrow hallway, and continued his rambling and his talk.

“I made up my mind then that if Pete wasn’t drowned, that if I ever saw his dear, foolish, homely face again, I’d – I’d – ”

“Be a better man,” Hal suggested.

“Learn to write English,” offered Allan.

“Pay your debts,” muttered Pete over his pipe-stem.

“I’d take a fall out of him!” concluded Tommy, savagely. At the same instant he put a hand under Pete’s chin, tipped him heels over head backward onto the floor, smothered his outcries by banging the saddle down over his face, punched him twice in the ribs – and flew! His forethought in opening the door saved him. As he dived through he slammed it behind him in Pete’s face, and the others heard four wild leaps on the staircase. Then all was still save for Pete’s chuckles. But stay! What sound was that from beneath the window; what doleful wailings broke upon the night air? They hearkened.

“Cowardy, cowardy, cowardy cat!” shrilled Tommy. “Dare you to come down, Pete Burley!”

Pete threw up a front window. There was a sound of hasty footfalls and an exclamation as Tommy collided with an ash-barrel. Then from far up the street came a last defiant challenge: “O Fresh!”

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: