Kitabı oku: «On Your Mark! A Story of College Life and Athletics», sayfa 10
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.”
“I don’t know,” said Stearns, doubtfully. “Something will turn up, you see if it doesn’t.”
“Nonsense! How about you, Ware? Going to win the two miles?”
“I’m scared to think about it,” answered Allan, uneasily. “That Robinson crack can do better than I’ve succeeded in doing yet, and so I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with second place.”
“Oh, Ware’s all right,” said Stearns, encouragingly. “He’s going to present us with five points, and we’ll need ’em!”
This sounded more like the Stearns Allan was accustomed to.
“They tell me that chum of yours, Burley, is going to do great things with the shot, Ware,” said Mason, questioningly.
“I hope so,” Allan answered. “He can, all right; the only thing is whether he will get fussed and forget how; he’s funny that way.”
“Well, Billy thinks he’s a wonder, and says that by next year he’ll be able to give a foot to the best college man in the country. Well, there’s the bell. I hate to waste a day like this indoors, but – needs must when the faculty drives!”
The trio slipped off the fence and went their separate ways, but before they parted Stearns drew Allan aside.
“I say, Ware,” he said, “don’t say anything to any one about what – what you’ve heard. There’s no use in discouraging them, you know, and what I just said doesn’t amount to anything; I guess I’m feeling a bit nervous. You understand?”
But Allan, as he crossed the yard to College Hall, in the tower of which the bell was clanging its imperative summons, couldn’t help feeling apprehensive and worried. It was so unlike Stearns to admit even the possibility of defeat. On the steps Allan ran against Pete, big, smiling, and serenely satisfied with life.
“How’d you get on yesterday?” asked Allan, as they went in together.
“Oh, pretty middlin’,” said Pete, cheerfully. “I got within four inches of that cayuse of a Monroe.”
“But you’ll have to beat him if you expect to win over Robinson,” said Allan, anxiously.
“Oh, I’m not bothering about Robinson,” answered Pete. “If I can do up Monroe, that’s all I give a hang about!”
The next afternoon, Thursday, Stearns appeared at Allan’s room, looking excessively cheerful.
“Hello!” he said, as he sat down. “How are things?”
“All right,” answered the other, wondering at the track captain’s errand. “How about you?”
“Fine as silk,” he said. “Say, Ware, Robinson has sent a foolish letter, and asks the committee to look up your record. Of course,” he went on, carelessly and hurriedly, “it’s all poppycock, but they think they have a case, and so maybe you’d better walk over with me and see Nast about it; just explain things so he can write back to ’em, you know. Are you busy?”
Allan, bewildered and dismayed, looked across at Stearns with wide eyes and sinking heart. The track team captain’s forebodings of yesterday flashed into memory, and it was with a very weak voice that he asked finally:
“You mean that – that Robinson has protested me?”
Stearns laughed carelessly, but something in the other’s tone sent a qualm of uneasiness to his heart.
“Oh, there’s no question of a protest,” he answered, “because the time for protests has gone by. But, of course, they knew the committee would investigate the matter, and that if everything wasn’t all right they wouldn’t allow you to run. But, of course, as I say, it’s all nonsense. They say you were entered in the mile run at the St. Thomas Club Meet, in Brooklyn, during vacation, and came in third. And – and there’s a silly newspaper clipping with your name in it. But, as I told Nast, you can explain that all right, I guess. Fact is, you know,” he continued, with a little annoyed laugh, “you’ve got to; we can’t afford to lose you, Ware.”
Allan took his cap from the desk.
“Come on,” he said, quietly.
CHAPTER XXII
A NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPH
During the short walk across the yard little was said. Stearns now and then shot puzzled and anxious glances at Allan’s face, but the latter looked straight ahead of him, and Stearns learned nothing. In the office Professor Nast approached the subject at once. The Robinson authorities, he stated, had written, saying that Ware had won third prize in the mile event at an indoor meet of the St. Thomas Club, in Brooklyn, on the evening of December 26th, and in support of the contention enclosed a clipping from a newspaper. The clipping was handed to Allan, and he read, opposite a big blue pencil mark:
“Mile run – Won by E. C. Scheur, N. Y. C. C. A. (45 yds.); second, T. Webb, St. T. A. A. (45 yds.); third, A. Ware, E. A. A. (50 yds.). Time – 4m. 47s.”
Allan returned the clipping calmly.
“You understand,” said the professor, gently, “that the mere fact of your having entered this meeting without permission would not of itself render you ineligible on Saturday. The trouble is that the meeting” – here he tapped the newspaper clipping with his pencil – “was not an amateur affair; the prizes were purses of money, and, being an ‘open’ meeting, there were, as you may see, a number of professionals participating. That – er – is the difficulty.”
“I know nothing about it,” said Allan, quietly.
Stearns sank back in his chair with a long sigh of relief. “I told you it was all nonsense!” he exclaimed. The professor himself looked well pleased.
“I did not run in that meeting,” continued Allan. “I have been in Brooklyn but once, and that was fully six years ago.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said the professor, “very glad. Now, while I am not in duty bound to explain the matter to the Robinson authorities, yet it is better for various reasons to do so. And there is one thing – ” He paused and tapped the desk frowningly. “About this clipping?” he asked. Allan shook his head.
“I’m afraid I can’t explain that. Perhaps there’s another ‘A. Ware’ and perhaps ‘E. A. A.’ stands for something else besides Erskine Athletic Association.”
“Stands for lots of things, probably,” said Stearns, a bit impatiently.
“We might find that out,” mused the professor. “Where were you, Ware, that evening, the – ah – yes, the twenty-sixth of December?”
“I was in New York, visiting my aunt on Seventy-third Street. I was in the house all the evening, except for about half an hour, when I went out on an errand.”
“Well, you couldn’t have crossed the river to Brooklyn, run a mile race and returned home in half an hour,” said the professor, lightly. “Now, will you get your aunt to write me a letter, stating those facts and assuring me that you were not and could not have been in Brooklyn? It is not, you understand, that I doubt your word, Ware, but I have my duties in these affairs and I must perform them. Simply a letter, you understand, will suffice.”
“I will do my best,” Allan replied; “but – ”
“Eh?” shouted Stearns.
“But my aunt has left New York city and is traveling in the West, probably in California now. I shall have to find her address from my mother first, and by that time – ”
“Now, look here, sir,” interrupted Stearns. “Surely Ware’s word of honor is enough in a case of this sort? It’s only a – a coincidence of names, sir.”
“For my own satisfaction Mr. Ware’s word is sufficient,” replied the chairman, with dignity, “but the rules require evidence, and I must have it. I only ask Mr. Ware to supply me with a statement from some person who knows of his whereabouts on the evening in question. Perhaps there is some other person who will do as well?” But Allan shook his head.
“No, sir, I’m afraid not. My aunt lives alone except for the servants, and I saw no one I knew that evening. I will telegraph to my mother at once, and perhaps I will be able to get a letter from my aunt before Saturday. But it’s a pretty short time.”
“Produce your evidence any time before the two-mile race is called,” said the chairman, kindly, “and it will be all right. And, by the way, a telegram will answer as well as a letter, if your – er – aunt is in the West. I am anxious to help you in every way possible, and I regret that the duties of my office require me to be or – er – seem exacting. Another thing, Ware; the Athletic Association will incur all the expenses of telegraphing in this affair; and you need not – ah – spare money. Good morning.”
“Oh, it will be all right,” said Stearns, cheerfully, as they hurried together to the telegraph office. But Allan shook his head despondently.
“No, I’ve felt ever since yesterday that something would happen to ball things up. And now it’s happened. And I don’t believe I’ll hear from my aunt in time. However, I wouldn’t have got better than second place, anyway. But I did want to run,” he ended, dolorously.
“Nonsense! Cheer up! We’ll make the wires hum. We’ve got pretty near two whole days, and we can telegraph around the world fifty times in two days.”
The telegram asking for his aunt’s address was duly despatched to his mother in New Haven, and after that there was nothing left to do save wait her reply. Allan parted from Stearns and went dejectedly back to his room. There he found Pete engaged in a carouse with Two Spot. They wouldn’t let Pete practise with the shot to-day, or again before the meet, and he was feeling quite lost in consequence. Allan wanted some one to unfold his tale of woe to, and he was glad to find Pete awaiting him. Pete, as the story was told, grew very indignant, and offered to punch Professor Nast’s head. But Allan finally convinced him that the chairman of the Athletic Committee wasn’t at all to blame.
“It’s a beastly way to have things end, after you’ve been practising hard all spring,” he said, as he arose impatiently from his chair and strolled to the desk. A Latin book was lying on the blotter, with a slip of paper marking the page where Allan had been at work when Stearns appeared. Now he opened the book, crumpled the marker into a ball and tossed it disgustedly onto the floor. Then he drew up a chair and plainly hinted that he desired to study. Pete, however, refused to heed the hint.
“It’s a mighty foolish business,” he said, thoughtfully.
Allan grunted.
Two Spot had discovered the little ball of paper and was making believe that it was a mouse. She rolled it from under the couch with playful pawings and frantic rushes, and finally tossing it in the air, so that it fell at Pete’s feet, she stopped, blinked at it and suddenly fell to washing her feet, as though too dignified to do aught else. Pete stooped absent-mindedly and picked up the bit of paper, unfolding it slowly and smoothing it across one huge knee.
“Seems to me,” he said presently, “you chaps have forgotten one thing.”
“What’s that?” Allan asked, ungraciously.
“To wire the St. Thomas Club people and ask them if you ran in their old meeting.”
“Well, that’s so,” said Allan, hopefully. “But, then, there was probably some one there named ‘A. Ware,’ and they’d just answer ‘yes.’”
“Ask ’em if Allan Ware, of Erskine, ran in the meeting, and, if he didn’t, who the dickens the ‘A. Ware’ was who did run. Tell you’ve got to know in a hurry, and that it’s blamed important.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Allan, “that’s a good idea. Funny we didn’t think of it, wasn’t it?”
For answer Pete grunted, as though he didn’t think it at all funny.
“Hello, who’s ‘Horace L. Pearson, N. Y. A. C.’?” asked Pete, holding up the scrap of paper rescued from Two Spot, and which now proved to be torn from the program of the Boston indoor meeting.
“I don’t know; why?” asked Allan.
“I used to know a fellow of that name out in Colorado. He was sort of studying mining. What does ‘N. Y. A. C.’ mean?”
“New York Athletic Club. It’s probably the same fellow. I remember him now. He was the chap that thought Rindgely was me.”
“Eh?” asked Pete. “How was that?”
So Allan told him, and Pete grew very thoughtful as the short narrative progressed. When Allan had finished he asked:
“I suppose these fellows that do stunts at the Boston meet go to pretty near all of them, don’t they?”
“Oh, I don’t know; a good many, I guess. Why?”
“Just wondering,” answered Pete. “Come on and send that telegram. If you address it to the president or treasurer or something, it will do, won’t it?”
“I’ll send it to the chairman of the Athletic Committee,” said Allan, seizing his hat. “I’m glad you thought of it, Pete. You’re some good in the world, after all, aren’t you?”
“Sure. See you this evening. I want to see Tommy. Where do you suppose I’ll find him?”
“Oh, come on down to the telegraph office.”
“Can’t; I want Tommy.”
“Well, try the Purple office; maybe he’s there. Don’t forget to come around to-night. I may get an answer from my mother by that time.”
Pete was successful. To be sure, Tommy wasn’t in the office of the Purple, but Pete hadn’t supposed he would be; Tommy wasn’t so easily caught. But by tracing him from one place to another, Pete at last came up with him in the library, where he was eagerly securing data for an article on rowing which he was preparing for a Boston Sunday paper.
“You see,” he explained, hurriedly, “I don’t know very much about rowing, but it wouldn’t do to say so, and so I come here and consult these gentlemen.” He indicated the half-dozen volumes by which he was surrounded. “If I only wrote what I knew, you see, I’d never make any money.”
“Well, that’s the first time I ever heard you acknowledge you didn’t know it all, from throwing to tying,” said Pete.
“Oh, a fellow has to keep up a front,” said Tommy, shrewdly, with a grin.
Pete slipped into the next chair, and for the next quarter of an hour they whispered fast and furiously. When Pete got up, he said:
“This isn’t for publication in your old paper, Tommy, you know. And don’t say anything about it to any one, will you?”
And Tommy pledged himself to secrecy, adding:
“And I think you’ve got it, Pete. Are you going to see him to-night?”
“As soon as I can find him in his room,” Pete replied.
“Then I’ll come around to Allan’s to-night and hear what’s happened.”
“Maybe I won’t tell Allan,” answered Pete. “Anyhow, not unless I have to. I’ll see what the coyote has to say for himself.”
“Rindgely? Oh, he’ll have plenty to say, all right. He’ll talk himself blue in the face if you let him.”
“Maybe I won’t let him,” answered Pete, grimly.
