Kitabı oku: «Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner», sayfa 7
“Well, old sport, fate has certainly been handing you a rather rough deal lately, hasn’t she?” asked Bert, addressing the dog, and was answered by a faint wag of the stubby tail.
“We’ll have to give him a name, I suppose,” said Dick, “what shall we call him fellows? Suggest something.”
This was a serious matter, for of course a mascot has got to have an appropriate name. ‘Sport,’ ‘Nero,’ ‘Prince,’ and many others were proposed, but were finally rejected in favor of Bingo, which had a college flavor and seemed to suit him very well.
By the time this question had been settled they had reached the Northland, and were soon on board. Last of all Bingo was hoisted over the side, and introduced to the assembled athletes as the team mascot. He was received with the greatest enthusiasm, and immediately proceeded to make friends with everybody.
“I always thought we’d clean things up at the Olympics,” remarked Drake, “but now I feel more certain of it than ever. The only thing we lacked is now supplied. I must confess, now that the trial is past, that having no mascot has kept me awake many a night and seriously affected my appetite,” he said, with a grin.
“Gee, if anything has been affecting your appetite, Drake,” said one of the others, “I’d like to see you when you were in first class shape and could really eat. I think this bally old hooker would be out of grub in less than a week.”
“Oh, yes, that’s right, pick on me, just because I’m small and weak,” grinned Drake, who was something like six feet two inches tall, and weighed a hundred and ninety-five pounds, “why don’t you go and get some poor victim of your own size once in a while.”
“Gee, it must be awful to be feeble and puny the way you are, Drake,” laughed Bert, “you certainly do arouse my pity. What you need is a tonic to build you up.”
“Yes,” chimed in Tom, “poor Drake’s fading fast. All he could do to-day was to throw the discus a measly little hundred and thirty feet and a fraction. That sure is an indication of falling powers.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed how he’s weakening,” remarked Axtell. “Why, he hasn’t got anything at all on that discus except a mile a minute speed and a world of strength. Otherwise he’s certainly all in.”
Drake stood all this chaffing with a good natured grin, for he was in such good condition that he could afford to have people joke about it. He had been doing better and better all the time, and nobody on board had the slightest doubt that he would break all records at the coming Olympic.
He was really a marvel of strength, but some of the sailors on board, while they admitted that “the big guy could sure throw that plate around” still believed that at least one of their number had the ‘goods’ on him. They pinned their faith on a big, red haired Irishman of their number, who had won fame in many a rough and tumble battle, and swore that no ‘college guy’ who ever lived could throw him. The athletes had equal faith in Drake, however, and knew that he had at one time taken considerable interest in scientific wrestling. This fact, combined with his phenomenal strength, made them certain he could throw the big sailor.
For some time there had been considerable controversy between the athletes and the crew, all in a good natured strain, however. The sailors were anxious to pit their champion against Drake, but the latter had felt that such a contest would interfere with his training, and so had held off.
That morning, however, the big Irish sailor had made a vaunting remark that had “gotten Drake’s goat,” and made the big fellow resolve to bring matters to an issue once and for all.
He confided his resolve to Bert and a few chosen pals, and they were glad to hear it, for the crew had all along adopted a skeptical attitude toward the athletes, and referred to them more than once as the “college kids.”
Accordingly they decided to challenge the big sailor that very night, and Dick was intrusted with the task. They decided to meet the man (Donahue by name), on his own terms, so that afterward the sailors could have no possible grounds of complaint.
In pursuance of this plan Dick went forward to the sailors’ quarters immediately after supper, and found Donahue and some of his friends lying in their berths smoking black clay pipes and swapping yarns, as was their custom off watch, when they felt strong enough to stand the strain.
“And phwat’s the matter now, young felly?” inquired Donahue, when he saw Dick coming down the ladder. “Sit down awhile and make yersilf comfortable. I was jist goin’ to tell my mates o’ the time Oi was wrecked on a cannibal island an’ married the chief’s daughter, an – ”
But here Dick interrupted him. “I’m afraid I won’t have time to listen just now,” he said. “I’ve come from my friend Drake (the discus thrower, you know), and he wants me to say that he thinks he can throw the best wrestler you’ve got here, bar none.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” growled Donahue, “all right, me bye, you just go back and tell him that Oi’m ready for him any minute of the day, or night too fer that matter. How does he want to run the match? Under a lot o’ fancy rules, Oi suppose.”
“Not on your tintype,” replied Dick, warmly, “this is to be catch as catch can, and the best man wins. You haven’t any objection to that, have you?”
“Divil a bit,” said the sailor, “thim terms suits me all right. What do ye say mates? When shall we run off the match?”
“What would be the matter with to-morrow evening right after supper?” inquired Dick, “you might as well take your licking then as any other time, Donahue, and get the agony over with.”
“Lickin’, is ut?” said the big Irishman, grimly. “Lickin’ it may be, but it won’t be me as gets it, you can lay to that. Bring on your man after supper to-morrow evenin’ at about this time, and Oi’ll stretch me muscles a little before goin’ to sleep. Me heart’s full o’ pity for your man, though. It seems a shame to do ut,” and he grinned and gave a tremendous and elaborate yawn.
“All right, we’ll be here,” replied Dick, “only if you’ve got any sympathy to spare, I’d advise saving it for your own private use. You’ll need plenty of it.”
“Well, that’s as may be,” replied Donahue, and after settling a few more details Dick left.
Returning to his companions, he acquainted them with the result of his mission, and Drake expressed himself as perfectly satisfied with the conditions.
“I don’t anticipate much trouble,” he said. “I guess there’s no doubt but what that harp is pretty strong, but its simply a matter of muscle against brain, and muscle doesn’t usually make out very well in that case.”
“Yes, but you’ve got to be mighty careful,” warned Dick. “That sailor is one of the strongest men I ever saw, and is capable of giving you a good deal of trouble. I’ll be much surprised if he doesn’t give you a mighty hard tussle.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a minute,” replied Drake, “still I think I have the goods on him. We won’t have to wait very long to find out, that’s sure.”
After a little further discussion in the same vein the boys dispersed for the night.
Of course, Reddy had gathered a pretty good idea of what was going forward, and at first he had decided to interfere, but later changed his mind. “I guess it won’t hurt the boy,” he reflected, “he’s tough as a piece of armor plate, and it may do him good to give his muscles a good work out. There’s nothing like a little excitement once in a while to tone a man up and put him in the pink of condition.”
Accordingly Reddy “winked his other eye,” as the saying goes, and let the boys go on with their preparations unmolested.
CHAPTER XIII
A Husky Antagonist
The next day passed quietly, and the athletes spent it profitably in unbroken training exercises, and Reddy felt that they were rounding into form in a manner to suit even his critical eye. He watched the runners circling the track, the jumpers practising, and last, but not least, the discus and hammer throwers hurling the heavy weights from the stern of the ship. His sharp eye watched Drake’s performance with particular care, but the latter showed no sign of concern over the coming contest, and laughed and joked with the others as though nothing unusual were in the wind. At his last attempt he gave an unusually savage heave to the heavy disc, and it sailed far out over the shining, sparkling water. The cord attached to it whizzed through the air, and when pulled in the plate was found to have traveled one hundred and thirty-two feet flat.
“Good for you, Drake. That’s the kind of stuff I want to see!” exclaimed the trainer, and Drake flushed a little with pleasure. Reddy gave so little praise that when he did speak well of any performance his words had a double value. Which was perhaps his object. Who knows?
“Well, it wasn’t so bad, I suppose,” said Drake, “but I guess I’ll rest on my laurels now, and take it easy the rest of the day. I’ll bet any money that before we get to Berlin I’ll be crowding the record for all its worth, though.”
“Maybe so, maybe so,” growled Reddy, who seemed to regret his praise, “but you’ve got to keep plugging, and plugging hard, if you expect to do it. That’s the trouble with a lot of athletes, and a good many others who aren’t athletes; they quit just when the goal’s in sight, and lose all their effort for nothing. It’s usually the last few yards of a race that are the hardest, and it’s then that the quitting streak shows up in a lot of people.”
“Well, I’m not going to quit,” said Drake, a little resentfully.
“I know that, me boy,” replied Reddy, in a softer voice. “Me little sermon wasn’t meant for you.”
One of the hammer throwers created a diversion here, by getting his string tangled in the bulwarks, and not noticing it until he had hurled the heavy missile. Before it had traveled half its distance it reached the end of the cord, which snapped like a cobweb under the weight. “Good night,” exclaimed the thrower, gazing ruefully at the frazzled end of the cord as it whipped inboard, “there’s a hammer gone to visit Davy Jones, all right.”
“Gee!” laughed Tom, who was sitting near, “I hope it doesn’t hit the old gentleman on the head. He may not appreciate the gift, if it did.”
“I wouldn’t blame him much for feeling peeved,” said Dick, “it wouldn’t be the most comfortable thing in the world to have that drop in on you unexpected-like. I think the old sport would have right on his side, myself.”
“I think you’re right, Dick,” said Bert, “and I think that to atone for the insult we ought to throw old Snyder overboard. What do you think, fellows? It might keep Dave from wreaking his vengeance on the whole ship. A stitch in time saves nine, you know.”
“Overboard with him,” yelled the laughing group, but Drake held up his hand in silence.
“You seem to forget, fellows,” he said, in a solemn voice, “that as yet we’re not absolutely certain that the old gentleman has been hit. I suggest, therefore, that we spare Snyder until Mr. Jones calls for him in person. Then we will hand him over without protest, of course, in fact, gladly.”
“Oh, well, I suppose we might as well postpone the pleasure, seeing that you suggest it,” said Bert. “It’s a big disappointment, though.”
Accordingly the boys solemnly agreed to spare Snyder’s life for the time being, and the baited hammer thrower went forward to get a new hammer from the reserve supply.
He soon returned, and this time was more careful of his string before letting fly. He showed well in the practice, and Reddy was well pleased with his work. “I guess he’ll do,” he thought to himself, “he’s getting slowly better all the time, and that’s what I like to see. These ‘phenoms’ aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. They show up well for a while, and then like as not they go all to pieces. I’ll take a chance on a good, steady, hard working man every time. They’re the ones you can count on in the pinches.”
Practice went on without further interruption until lunch time, and everybody did ample justice to the well cooked meal. The constant exercise, combined with the invigorating sea air, gave them appetites that it took much to satisfy, and which caused wondering comment in the galley.
“Zey eat more zan I zink possible,” the little French chef had exclaimed at the beginning of the voyage, with uplifted hands. “I cook an’ cook, and still zey have not too much. Mon Dieu! Zey will drive me – wat you call heem – bughouse. Eet is no wondaire zey are strong.”
In one way the little cook was not displeased, however, for at any rate he could complain of no lack of appreciation of his cooking.
After everything had been demolished the athletes repaired to the deck, and did whatever pleased them for a couple of hours. Some played deck games, while others were content to read or gaze out idly over the sparkling blue ocean. The weather was ideal, and since the storm that had wrecked the schooner hardly a cloud had appeared in the sky. Bingo appreciated the fair weather immensely, and began to get his looks back, which had suffered somewhat under his recent hardships. He was now firmly intrenched in the affections of every athlete on board, and had been accepted unreservedly as their mascot.
He was friendly with everybody, but his real affection seemed divided between Bert, Tom and Dick. He always followed them around, and evidently considered them his especial guardians, as they had been his rescuers.
They in turn saw that he had plenty to eat, and made a great pet of him generally. He seemed to take a deep interest in everything that went on, and would watch the boys training with the wisest look imaginable on his doggish face.
This particular afternoon he was not in sight, however, when Dick and Bert went to hunt up Drake. They found him finally, stretched out in a steamer chair, and reading a book as though he had nothing in the world on his mind.
“Sit down, fellows, and take a load off your feet,” he said, as Bert and Dick came up, “what’s the good word this afternoon?”
“Oh, there’s nothing particular doing,” replied Bert, as he took his seat on the edge of the rail, balancing back and forth with the motion of the ship at imminent risk of being spilled into the ocean, “it seems like the calm preceding the storm.”
“By storm meaning to-night, I suppose,” said Drake smiling, “but I’m not worrying about it, so why should you?”
“Well, I suppose we don’t need to, in that case,” replied Bert. “I’m glad you feel so sure about it, though. Do you feel in good shape?”
“Never better in my life,” replied Drake, with a tremendous yawn. “I’m just debating in my mind whether to kill this audacious seaman or just put him on the sick list for a week or two.”
“Gee, you just about hate yourself, don’t you Drake?” asked Bert, and they all laughed.
“Just the same you want to be watching all the time,” said Bert, “the way this fellow is used to wrestling, everything goes, and you want to look out for fouls. That’s the thing that’s worrying me.”
“Never fear,” replied Drake, “I used to take lessons from a man who knew the game backward, fair tricks and foul. He taught me a lot while I was with him, and I guess I’ll know what to expect. And fore-warned is fore-armed, you know.”
“Well, that was all I was afraid of,” said Bert. “I haven’t a doubt in the world that you are more than a match for him when it comes to straight wrestling. I’m not so awfully flabby myself, but I know you always manage to put me down.”
“Oh, that’s just because it’s out of your line,” replied Drake, “mere brute strength doesn’t count so very much in wrestling. It’s like boxing, or baseball, or anything else; it’s head work that is the deciding factor.”
“All right, old sock, get to it then,” said Bert, “don’t be afraid to eat plenty of beef steak for supper to-night. That’s the stuff will pull you through.”
“Right you are!” returned Drake. “I’ll be all right, all-right. There’ll be nothing to it, take it from me.”
“Well, that’s what we like to hear,” said Bert, reassured as he and Dick strolled away. They could talk of little else the rest of the afternoon, and became more and more excited as the appointed time drew near. At supper their usual appetites were not in evidence, and for the first time since they left port they failed to give the excellent meal the attention it deserved.
Supper despatched, they hunted up Drake, and together with Tom talked with him until it was close to eight o’clock. Then they walked forward, and descended to the seamen’s quarters. At intervals other athletes, who had been ‘let in’ on the secret, kept dropping in, until a goodly company had arrived.
“Well, ye’re on toime, Oi see,” remarked Donahue, “and how do ye feel, youngster?” addressing Drake. “Are ye ready to have yer back broke?”
“About the same as you are, I guess,” replied Drake, nonchalantly, and his companions grinned. It was evident that their candidate was without fear, at any rate.
The preliminaries were soon arranged, and Drake and the sailor faced each other at opposite extremities of a cleared space perhaps twenty feet square. Bert had been selected to act as second for Drake, and a big Swede, Olsen by name, had been nominated as Donahue’s second. Both Drake and the sailor were dressed in gray flannel shirts and short athletic trunks, and under this thin covering their splendid physical development could be plainly seen.
Donahue’s muscles were knotted and bunched, while Drake’s lay flatter and were much less prominent. To the untrained eye the sailor seemed much the stronger of the two, but Bert knew better. Otherwise they were much the same height and weight, and there seemed little to choose between them.
The referee gave the starting signal, and Drake and the seaman approached each other warily, each stepping lightly as a cat. In spite of their boasting before the contest, each man realized that he would have all he could do to win, and they were careful accordingly. At first they circled agilely round and round, each seeking for a favorable opening. Suddenly Drake sprang in, but before he could secure the hold he wanted, the nimble sailor had leaped aside, and for a few seconds they stood looking at each other. Then the wary circling began again, but this time it was Donahue who rushed in. He was more fortunate than Drake, and secured a hold. Drake also got a good grip on him, however, and for a moment they stood quiet, gathering their strength for the real struggle. Then with a sudden giant heave Donahue sought to lift his adversary off his feet, but Drake was as supple as a snake, and with a convulsive movement tore himself out of the sailor’s grasp and sprang free. Donahue was after him in a trice, and again they grappled, but this time it was Drake who got the better hold. With a heave and a lunge he lifted his giant opponent entirely clear of the floor, and sent him crashing down on his side. He followed up his advantage like a flash, but in spite of his great bulk the sailor was very quick, and had recovered somewhat, so that, try as he might, Drake was unable to put him on his back. Finally he was forced to give up the attempt, and the seaman sprang to his feet. They were about to engage again when the referee stepped in and declared a short time for rest. Both men were panting heavily, and were evidently in need of it.
They retired to their respective sides of the square, and Bert anxiously asked Drake if he felt all right. “Sure thing,” responded the latter, “give me a minute to get my wind and I’ll be as strong as ever. That fellow is a mighty husky brute, though. I’ve certainly had my hands full with him.”
On his part, the big Irishman felt surprised that he had not ended the contest before this, and so expressed himself to his second. “Begorry,” he muttered. “The young felley knows all the tricks o’ the game, and then some. I went to jam me elbow into him when we were mixin’ it up there, and he blocked me as neat as ever you see. Curse me if the young spalpheen didn’t seem to be ixpictin’ it.”
“Yah, he bane foxy one, you bet,” responded the Swede, “but you yust go in an’ smash him up now. He bane easy for you.”
At this point the referee announced the recommencement of the contest, and again the wrestlers fenced for a hold. Then they dashed in, grasped each other, and for a moment stood motionless as though rooted to the spot. Gradually, each began to exert his strength, ounce by ounce, seeking by sheer brute force to bend the other backward. Their muscles swelled and stood out under the skin, but at first neither seemed to gain an advantage. Then, slowly, very slowly, the big sailor bent backward – further and further – until he could stand it no longer. With a yell he collapsed and went to the floor, with Drake on top of him. In a second the athlete had the giant’s shoulders touching the floor, and the referee called a “down.”
Then the contest should have been over, but the defeated man would not have it so. With a hoarse shout of rage he sprang to his feet and rushed straight at Drake. When the latter saw him coming he set himself for the onslaught with a jerk, and a dangerous light burned in his eyes.
The Irishman dashed for him with the speed and force of a wild bull, and Drake ducked slightly. Then as the man reached him he grasped him by the wrists, and straightened up with a great heave. The sailor went flying over his head and shot through the air like a projectile from a gun.
A cry went up from everybody there, for it seemed certain that he would be killed. Fortunately, however, his momentum was so great that it carried him clear to the wall, where he dove head first into a bunk. For a moment he lay stunned, but then staggered weakly out, shaking his head from side to side.
“Be all the saints,” he gasped, “Oi’ve met me match this night and got the lickin’ of me life. The best man won, that’s all Oi’ve got to say. Shake hands before ye go, will ye, kid?”
“Sure,” said Drake frankly, extending his hand. “You gave me a hard tussle, and deserved to win. I hope I never have to stand up against you again,” he added, with a grin, “for you’re certainly a dandy.”
Then he and his followers filed out, and returned to the training quarters. The first person they saw when they entered was Reddy, and he grinned broadly as they came in. Bert had hinted pretty broadly at the object of their visit to the forecastle, but had not told Reddy openly what was in the wind, as in his official capacity the trainer would not have felt in a position to sanction the affair. As it was, he awaited news of the outcome with considerable anxiety, and seemed much relieved when the whole contest was recounted to him and he learned of its successful termination.
“Well, to bed with you now, you worthless spalpeens,” he said at the end of the recital. But as they were dispersing to their bunk he called, “I’m mighty glad you won, Drake.”
The next morning Drake was on deck and practising at the usual time, feeling no ill effects from his strenuous experience other than a slight stiffness, which bothered him very little. In a couple of days even this wore off, and the next day but one from the date of the exciting contest he broke the record for discus throwing by a matter of almost six inches, thus justifying the trainer’s judgment.
As for the crew, they treated Drake with marked respect, and from that day forward nothing more was heard from them except praise concerning “college athletes,” and especially “plate-throwers.”
