Kitabı oku: «Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner», sayfa 2
By the side of the path, about a quarter of a mile from the lodge, was a great dogwood tree snowy with its fragrant blooms. Tom reached up to break off a branch, but just as he snapped the stem it slipped through his fingers and fell in the bushes beneath. He stooped over to pick it up. There was a whirring sound, a rattle that struck terror to their hearts and Tom jumped back with a great, gray, writhing thing hanging to his sleeve. He shook it off and staggered backward, while the rattler instantly coiled to strike again.
CHAPTER III
A Run for Life
Quick as lightning Bert slashed at the wicked head with a heavy stick he had been carrying. It caught the snake just as it darted forward and broke its back. It fell, twisting and writhing, and Bert throwing away his stick leaped to Tom’s side.
“Did he get you, Tom?” he asked, with a horrible fear tugging at his heart.
“I don’t know,” answered Tom, trying to smile. “He seemed to be tangled up in my sleeve. Perhaps his teeth didn’t go through. But I feel – rather – queer.”
In an instant Dick and Bert yanked off Tom’s coat and rolled up his shirt sleeve. Their hearts almost stopped beating. There, just below the elbow were two tiny punctures, fiery red against the white skin.
Like a flash Dick’s lips were on the wound as he strove to draw out the venom. Bert whipped out his handkerchief and tied it tightly just above those ominous spots. Then he thrust a stick through the folds and twisted it until Tom grew white with the pain.
Drawing his whistle from his pocket, Bert blew loud and shrill a series of short and long notes in the Morse alphabet that told of deadly need and peril. He knew that if it reached the ears of Mr. Hollis it would bring him instantly.
And now for a doctor. But where? He cast wildly about him and his heart sank as he realized that there was none nearer than the county town fourteen miles away. Fourteen long miles over a rough forest road. There was no telephone or telegraph in that wilderness. The only horse on the place was a sedate old brute who couldn’t be flogged into a gallop. There was one thing to do and only one. He leaped to his feet.
At that moment an answering whistle came over the hill, telling him that Mr. Hollis had heard and was coming.
“I’m off,” Bert cried to Dick. “Keep a stiff upper lip, old man,” as he clapped Tom on the shoulder. Another moment and the woods closed round him.
Those giant trees, centuries old, had seen some strange sights in their time. Perhaps in the old days some Indian brave in pursuit of his quarry or himself pressed hard by enemies had passed beneath them like the flight of an arrow. But it is doubtful if they had ever seen a white man running at such speed as Bert’s, as like a young Mercury with winged heels he rushed along under their branches. Life was at stake – Tom’s life, he reflected as a pang tore through him – and he must run as he had never run before if he were to come out winner.
The road itself was a fearful handicap. It was little more than a woodcutter’s path, ridged by deep furrows, dotted here and there with stumps, strewn with branches blown down in storms. Even where it was comparatively clear, the pine needles that carpeted it in spots offered a slippery and treacherous footing. Low-hanging branches brushed his face, long creepers reached out to grasp his flying feet. If he should once slip or trip or sprain an ankle – . He shuddered and ran on.
He had started off at a terrific pace and had covered three miles or more at top speed. Then the strain began to tell. His lungs were laboring and his breath came in gasps that were almost sobs. He took a grip on himself. At this rate he would collapse before he had gone five miles. He must husband his strength or he would never reach the end of his journey. And then – .
At the thought he slackened speed and fell into the long steady lope that yet covered the ground at an amazing rate. His breathing became easier and he knew that he would soon get his second wind. Then he felt that he could run all day.
Now he had made half the distance and from the crown of a hill he caught sight of the far-off spire of a church that marked the location of the town. It put new speed into his feet and life into his veins. He would win through. He must win through. Yet through his self assurance came at times the terrible thought – suppose that after all he should be too late.
A fierce rage against the whole snake family took possession of him. Again he heard the blood-curdling rattle; again he saw the malicious eyes in which a devil lurked, the ugly triangular head, the long slimy diamond-marked body that turned him sick with loathing. He could have wished that all the venomous tribe had been compressed in one, that he might kill it with a single blow.
But he shook off this feeling. Hate weakened him – taxed too heavily his vital forces. He must concentrate on just one thing – Tom and the terrible need for haste.
Now he was running easily. His wind was in good condition. His legs had taken on new strength. The only danger left was the path. If he could avoid injury that would cripple him, he knew he could win. He had shed hat and coat and vest, had even thrown away his knife and whistle to lighten himself by every ounce for the final sprint. A mountain brook lay in his path. He stooped, dashed the water over his head and ran on.
At last the woods became less dense. Scattered clearings here and there told him he was reaching the outskirts of the town. He passed a farmhouse, then another. He caught a glimpse of people at doors and windows staring at him as though at an apparition. A team drew hastily aside to let him pass. A straggling line of houses marked the entrance to the town. Just as he reached the main street, he caught sight of a doctor’s sign, and dashing upon the porch hammered at the door.
The woman who opened it started back at the sight of him. He was dripping with sweat, his face was haggard and drawn, his eyes burning with excitement.
“The doctor,” he gasped.
“Here he is,” said a tall, keen-faced man, appearing at this moment. “What is it?”
Between gasps Bert made known his errand. The doctor’s face grew grave.
“Sit down,” he said, “and I’ll harness up and be with you in a minute.” And he hurriedly left the room.
But Bert was thinking quickly. Over that rough road and largely uphill, even a good horse – and the doctor’s nag was not likely to be a thoroughbred – would find it hard to negotiate the distance within two hours. And what might happen to Tom in that time he did not dare to think. What could he do? And then like a flash came the solution. The Red Scout! She could make it in twenty minutes.
Without a word he rushed out of the house and across to the combination livery and garage where the machine was stored. There it stood, the most conspicuous object in the place, with all trace of its journey removed and its cylinders shining. It was the work of a moment to explain matters to the proprietor and see that there was plenty of gasoline in the tank. He sprang to the driver’s seat, threw in the clutch and glided swiftly out to the road. So that when the doctor drove around the side of the house he was astonished to see the great car come swooping down upon him.
“All ready, doctor,” shouted the wild-eyed youth at the wheel, “come along.”
“You’ll never make it,” he protested, “on this road. You’ll split it apart. You’ll tear it to pieces.”
“We will make it,” cried Bert. “We must make it. Jump in.”
For a moment the doctor hesitated. He knew – none better – the need of haste. Still his own life was precious. Then he rose to the occasion. His sporting blood was roused. He would take a chance. He swung his case into the tonneau and leaped in after it. “Let her go,” he called.
And Bert let her go!
The doctor saw some “demon driving” that day. The great machine sprang forward like an arrow released from the string. The cheer that rose from the little knot of townspeople who had hastily collected was lost in the roar of the exhaust. The town itself melted away like a dream. The wind whistled past them with a shriek. In a moment they had passed the straggling farmhouses and entered on the road that led upwards through the woods.
Crouched low over the wheel to offer as little resistance as possible to the wind, Bert kept his eye glued on the path ahead. To strike a tree meant death. Collision with a stump would be wreck and disaster. The car lunged from side to side and the doctor, down on the floor of the tonneau, held on for his life. Again and again they grazed death by a hair’s-breadth and escaped as by a miracle. Yielding to Bert’s slightest touch, the Scout evaded a stump here, a gully there, part of the time on two wheels, again on three, but always righting in time. And all the while, it was climbing, climbing – .
Now they had covered three-fourths of the distance and his heart leaped in a wild riot of exultation. He patted the wheel, soothed it, talked to it as though it could understand.
“Go it, old scout,” he muttered, “keep it up. We’ll get there yet. We’re running for Tom. You know Tom, good old Tom. You’ve carried him many a time. Now perhaps he’s dying. Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
His own fierce energy seemed to impart itself to the car. On it went until it topped the rise of the clearing, swung into the road that led to the lodge, and with a triumphal blast from its horn tore up to the door. Before it had fairly stopped, Bert leaped from his seat and the doctor stepped down from the tonneau, his face set and drawn from the perilous ride.
“Thank God, you’ve come,” cried Mr. Hollis appearing at the door. “I didn’t dare to hope for you for two hours yet. Come in, quick.”
There was no time for further explanations, but in the course of the fight for Tom’s life that followed, Bert learned of what had happened since he had started on his run for help. Warned by the whistle, Mr. Hollis and the caretaker had hurried to Dick’s side, and together they had carried Tom to the house. They had kept the ligature tight and had cut out the part immediately surrounding the wound. By the greatest efforts they had fought off the deadly coma, but, despite it all, he was fast lapsing into unconsciousness when the doctor appeared.
Faced by a peril that he knew, the doctor pulled himself together and became the cool, alert man of science. Such cases were familiar to him in that wild district, and there was no hesitation or uncertainty in his treatment. His quick sharp commands found ready obedience from his willing helpers, and after an hour of the hardest kind of work the fight was won. Tom’s pulse became more normal, his brow grew moist and he opened his eyes and smiled faintly at the group around him. The doctor rose.
“He’ll be all right now,” he said. “The fangs just missed the large vein, or he’d have been done for. As it is, we’ve barely pulled him through. If we’d been an hour later, I wouldn’t have answered for him. We can thank this young man,” looking at Bert, “for saving his friend’s life. By George, such driving! I’ve never ridden so fast before and I never want to again. A little more of that and I’d be a candidate myself for the hospital or insane asylum. How we escaped being dashed to pieces I don’t know.”
“It was great luck,” said Bert.
“It was great skill,” ejaculated Dick.
“It was Providence,” said Mr. Hollis gravely, and no one cared to dispute him.
After Tom was sleeping naturally and healthfully, and Bert and the doctor had bathed and dressed, they sat down to dinner. It was a quiet meal as all were feeling the reaction from the tremendous efforts of the morning. But their fatigue was lost in thankfulness. They had matched their forces against death and this time had won. But by how narrow a margin!
Dinner over, they strolled down the path to the scene of the encounter. There lay the cause of all the trouble. The long body, as thick as a man’s wrist, stretched out in a wavy line across the road. The diamond markings had dulled somewhat, but the staring eyes still seemed lit with malice.
“What a holy terror!” exclaimed Dick.
“Yes,” said the doctor. “He’s an old-timer, sure enough. He must be over five feet long and eleven years old, as you can see from his rattles. If you don’t mind, I’ll take these rattles along and hang them up in my office. They’ll serve to remind me of the most stirring incident in my life so far,” and he smiled, mischievously, at Bert.
“Take them and welcome as far as I’m concerned,” said Bert. “For my part I never want to see another snake, living or dead, for the rest of my natural life.” And as every one else felt the same way, the doctor neatly severed the grisly memento, to be duly dried and mounted in his sanctum.
Bert offered to take the doctor back to town in the auto, but the others put in an emphatic veto.
“No, you don’t,” said Mr. Hollis. “Not another thing for you to-day but rest.”
“You bet there isn’t,” echoed Dick. “Even Reddy, tyrant that he is, would agree that you’d had exercise enough for one day. I’ll take the doctor down myself. He won’t go back as fast as he came up, but he’ll be more comfortable. I always look out for the safety of my passengers,” he added, with mock severity.
The doctor grinned appreciatively. “Slow down to a walk as far as I’m concerned,” he said. “My appetite for speed has been satisfied for a long time to come. Any more just now would give me indigestion.”
Dick’s plan was to put the Red Scout in the garage, stay at the hotel that night and walk back in the morning. But the doctor who had taken a great liking to these young specimens of manhood overruled this, and insisted so strongly that Dick should be his guest over night that this was finally agreed upon.
“I’ll bring you back in the buckboard,” he said, “when I come up to-morrow to see how our patient is getting along. In the meantime, don’t worry. The worst is over and it’s only a matter of careful nursing for the next few days and he’ll be on his feet again. His youth and vitality and clean life, together with the ‘first aid’ you gave him have pulled him through.”
“Not to mention the doctor and Bert and the ‘Red Scout,’” added Mr. Hollis.
The doctor laughed and stepped into the machine. Dick took the wheel and the splendid car, none the worse for its wild ride, started on its way back to town, while Bert and Mr. Hollis, standing on the porch, looked after it almost as affectionately as though it had been human.
“Tally one more for the good old Scout,” murmured Bert, as he turned away.
That evening, his face still flushed at the heartfelt praise of his host, Bert went in to bid Tom good-night. The patient was getting on famously, but the shock to his system still persisted and he had been forbidden to do much talking. But the pressure of his hand on Bert’s and the look in his eyes were eloquent.
“Do you remember, Bert,” he half whispered, “what Reddy said the last time you saw him?”
“Why, no,” answered Bert, puzzled, and cudgeling his memory, “nothing special. What did he say?”
Tom smiled. “You’re fit to run for a man’s life.”
CHAPTER IV
A Desperate Struggle
Tom mended fast, though not in time to go back with Bert and Dick, and Mr. Hollis insisted that he should stay a week or ten days longer at the lodge until he had fully recovered.
The precious week of vacation passed only too quickly, and promptly on the day that college resumed, Bert, faithful to his promise, was back at work. He had carefully kept up his practice, and this, combined with the invigorating mountain air, had put him in splendid shape. As he confided to Dick, “if he’d felt any better he’d have been afraid of himself.” So that when he reported to Reddy and submitted to his inspection, even that austere critic could find no fault with the sinewy athlete who smilingly extended his hand.
“By the powers,” he said, as he looked him up and down approvingly, “I did a good thing to let you go. You’re fine as silk and trained to the hour. If looks count for anything you could go in now and break the record. Get out on the cinder path and let me time you for a five-mile spin.”
With the eye of a lynx, he noted Bert’s action as he circled the track. Nothing escaped him. The erect carriage, the arms held close to his sides, the hip and knee movement, the feet scarcely lifted from the ground, the long, easy stride that fairly ate up space, the dilated nostrils through which he breathed while keeping the mouth firmly closed, the broad chest that rose and fell with no sign of strain or labor – above all, the sense of reserve power that told of resources held back until the supreme moment called for them – all these marks of the born runner the trainer noted with keen satisfaction; and he was chuckling to himself when he snapped shut his split-second watch and thrust it in his pocket.
“He’ll have to break a leg to lose,” he gloated. “That lad is in a class by himself. I’m none too sure of the other events, but we sure have this one cinched. We’ll win in a walk.”
But while he thus communed with himself, he carefully abstained from saying as much to Bert. He had seen too many promising athletes ruined by overconfidence. Besides, while he felt sure that Bert could take the measure of any one now known to him as a runner, he couldn’t tell but what some “dark horse” would be uncovered at the general meet who would bring all his hopes tumbling about his head like a house of cards. Too many “good things” had gone wrong in his experience not to make him cautious. So it was with well-simulated indifference that he held up his hand at the end of the fifth mile.
“That’s enough for to-day,” he commanded. “To-morrow we’ll start in with the real work. We only have a scant two weeks left before the New York meet and we’ll need every minute of it.”
And Bert bent himself to his task with such earnestness and good will that when at last the great day of the final meet arrived he was at the top of his form. Neither he nor Reddy would have any excuses to offer or anything to reproach themselves with, if he failed to show his heels to the field.
And, as Dick remarked, when they entered the gate of the mammoth park, it “was certainly some field.” From every section of the country they had gathered – burly giants from the Pacific slope, the slenderer greyhound type of the East – some from colleges, others wearing the badge of famous athletic clubs – all of them in superb condition and all passionately bent on winning. To carry off a trophy in such company was a distinction to be prized. And, in addition to the ordinary incentives, was the international character of the event. Before the eyes of each hung the lure of a European trip and the opportunity of proving on foreign fields that the picked athletes of America could lead the world. Patriotism was blended with personal ambition and they formed a powerful combination.
Moreover, the chances of being chosen were much greater than is usual in such contests. Not only the winner in each event was to make the trip, but the man who came in second or third or even farther down the list would go. The Committee was not going to “put all its eggs in one basket.” The chances of sickness or accident or change of climate were too many to justify them in depending upon a single competitor to carry the colors of his country in any given struggle. Thus in the pole vaulting, hammer throwing, swimming, hurdling, javelin casting, there would be from three to six competitors each. In the Marathon – most important of all – as many as a dozen would probably be taken. So that all were buoyed up by the hope that even if some luckier or better man carried off first honors to-day, they still might be of the elect, if they were well up at the finish.
It was a striking and animated scene that the great park presented. A famous regimental band played national airs and “Old Glory” floated proudly over the judges’ pavilion. The stands were packed with a vast multitude that overflowed on the lawns, while on the inner track groups of contenders indulged in preliminary practice and loosened up their muscles before the games began. Then the bell rang, the tracks were cleared and the throng settled down to watch the performance of their favorites.
Fortune was kind to the Blues that day and their number was hoisted more than once on the bulletin board. Burly Drake cast the discus one hundred and thirty-four feet. Axtell won the standing broad jump and set the mark at eleven feet, two inches. Hinchman was second in the half-mile, and Martin cleared the pole at a height of twelve feet, one inch. Bert and Dick exulted at the showing of their Alma Mater and Reddy tried in vain to conceal his delight under a mask of grim indifference.
At last the time came for the Marathon. Eighteen miles was to be the limit, as the Committee agreed with Reddy that the actual Marathon distance might well be deferred until the day of the actual race. It was a fair presumption that those who showed up best at the end of the eighteen miles would be best prepared to cover the full distance of twenty-six when they had to face that heart-breaking test.
A final rub-down and Bert was ready. A last slap on the shoulder from Dick, a word of caution from Reddy, a howl of welcome from the Blues as he came in sight, and he trotted to the starting line where forty more were gathered. He threw off his sweater, and clad only in his light tunic and running trunks, with a blue sash about his waist, faced the starter. Like a young Viking he stood there, lithe and alert, in his eye the light of combat, in his veins the blood of youth, in his heart the hope of triumph.
A moment’s breathless pause. Then the pistol cracked and they were off.
As they rushed in a compact body past the stand, a tremendous roar of greeting and encouragement nerved them to the struggle. In a twinkling they were rounding the first turn and the race was fairly on.
They had not gone a mile before Bert knew that he had his work cut out for him. It was not that there was any phenomenal burst of speed that tended to take him off his feet. At this he would merely have smiled at that stage of the game. Sprinting just then would have been suicidal. But it was rather the air of tension, of grim determination, of subtle craftiness that made itself felt as in none of his previous races. Many of these men, especially the members of the athletic clubs, were veterans who had competed at a score of meets, while he was a comparative novice. They knew every trick of the racing game. Their judgment of pace, based on long experience, was such that without the aid of a watch they could tell within a few seconds the time of every mile they made. Hard as nails, holders of records, intent of purpose, they might well inspire respect and fear.
Respect – yes. Fear – no. There flashed across Bert’s mind a quaint saying of Reddy’s about pugilists: “The bigger they are the harder they fall.” And he ran on.
Gradually the group spread out like a fan. None had quit, for it was any one’s race so far. But stamina and speed were beginning to tell. That indefinable something called “class” made itself felt. Some were faltering in their stride, others laboring heavily for breath. Sometimes the laggards made despairing sprints that partly closed the gap between them and the leaders, but, unable to maintain the pace, fell back again to the ruck.
Running easily and keeping himself well in hand, Bert at the end of the twelfth mile was bunched with five others up in front. He knew now whom he had to beat. Thornton was at his left, and Brady a little in front. But these did not worry him. Magnificent runners as they were, he felt that he had their measure. He had beaten them once and could do it again.
On his right was a little Irishman with a four-leaved clover – the emblem of his club – embroidered on his sleeve. Behind him pounded two others, like wolves on the flank of a deer. One of them was an Indian runner from Carlisle, tall and gaunt, with an impassive face. The other bore the winged-foot emblem that told of membership in the most famous athletic club in the East.
Mile after mile passed, and still they hung on. The little Irishman was wabbling, but still fighting gamely. Brady had “bellows to mend.” Bert could hear his breath coming in long, hoarse gasps that told of strength rapidly failing. The Indian had ranged alongside, going strong. Behind him still padded the feet of the remaining runner.
At the sixteenth mile, Bert quickened his pace and called on his reserve. His heart was thumping like a trip-hammer and his legs were weary, but his wind was good. He left the Irishman behind him and was passing Brady, when the latter swerved from sheer fatigue right in Bert’s path and they went down in a heap.
A groan burst from the Blue partisans at the accident. Dick hid his face in his hands and Reddy danced up and down and said things that the recording angel, it is to be hoped, omitted to set down, in view of the provocation.
Dazed and bruised, Bert struggled to his feet. He was not seriously hurt, but badly shaken. He looked about and then the full extent of the calamity burst upon him.
The downfall had acted on the other runners like an electric shock. Thornton and the Irishman were two hundred feet in front, while the Indian and he of the winged-foot, running neck and neck, had opened up a gap of five hundred feet.
Had it been earlier in the race he would still have had a chance. But now with only a mile and a half to go, the accident threatened to be fatal to his hopes. The others had gained new life from this unexpected stroke of luck, and it was certain that they would not easily let go their advantage. To win now would be almost a miracle.
With savage resolution he pulled himself together. His dizzy brain cleared. Never for a second did he think of quitting. Disaster spurred him on to greater efforts. The Blues roared their delight as they saw their champion start out to overtake the flyers, now so far in front, and even the followers of the other candidates joined generously in the applause. A crowd loves pluck and here was a fellow who was game to the very core of him.
Link by link he let himself out. The track slipped away beneath him. The stands were a mere blur of color. At the turn into the last mile he passed the nervy little Irishman, and a quarter of a mile further on he collared Thornton. Foot by foot he gained on the two others. At the half, he ranged alongside the Indian who was swaying drunkenly from side to side, killed off by the terrific pace. Only one was left now, but he was running like the wind.
Now Bert threw away discretion. He summoned every ounce of grit and strength that he possessed. With great leaps he overhauled his adversary. Down they came toward the crowded stands, fighting for the lead. The Blues tried to sing, but in their excitement they could only yell. The crowd went crazy. All were on their feet, bending far over to watch the desperate struggle. On they came to the line, first one, then the other, showing a foot in front. Within ten feet of the line Bert gathered himself in one savage bound, hurled himself against the tape and fell in the arms of his exulting mates. He had won by inches.
