he said, "you have no right to be running for president, and you know it. You'll withdraw right away, or I'll give this story to the school myself. And one thing more. You're trying to make d.i.c.k Randall out a liar. d.i.c.k's gone into this thing against his will and risked a chance of getting into trouble, for the sake of the school. It was a plucky thing for a fellow to do, and if you breathe one little word to slander him, I'll do something that I wouldn't do in any other case for anything under the sun. I'll go straight to Mr. Fenton with the whole story. And you can take your chance on an investigation. Now then, will you pull out, or not? You can have your choice."

There was a tense silence. An utter change had come over Ellis' face.

He had the look of an animal hunted down. "You're mistaken, Harry," he said at last, with an effort at composure, "you're mistaken, I a.s.sure you. You don't understand--"

His stammering sentences died away on his lips. No one spoke, and presently Ellis seemed to make up his mind. He raised his head with an expression of resolve. "Look here, you fellows," he said, "I don't want to make any trouble over this thing. But there's something else comes into it, that you don't know. I'm in a row over some money I--lost--and if I don't get it pretty soon, I'm going to be in an awful hole. I might have to leave school," he added craftily, "and then I'd be out of it for the Pentathlon. Let's compromise this, all around. I'll pull out of the presidency, and give Harry a walk-over, and we'll let the business of the English exam drop. It will be the best for every one. If I did anything I ought not to have done, I'm sorry. I was doing it for the school, so that I wouldn't be cut out of the spring athletics. Why don't you fellows, among you, raise me two hundred dollars, and we'll let things go on, just as if nothing had happened at all."

The very effrontery of the proposal almost took away his listeners'

breath. Finally Allen spoke. "No, Dave," he said, "that isn't quite the way we do things here. We don't buy our athletes. We want the cup, all right, but we want it on the square. And if you cheated for the sake of the school, I'll only say that's the most remarkable way of showing school spirit that I've heard of yet. No, you will have to withdraw from the presidency, and give us your word never to cheat again. And if you'll do that, we'll let this whole matter rest. I don't know whether that's the fairest way or not, but I think it is.

If you're not up for office, it's a private matter then, and one that there's no need of publishing around. So it's up to you, Dave. Quit or not. We'll meet you half-way, whatever you do."

Ellis scowled, and bit his lip. He thought for some moments in silence, then turned to go. "I'll let you know in two days," he said.

"You keep quiet till then, and so will I."

He took his departure, leaving the group behind him busy with speculations as to what he meant to do. Yet no one even dreamed what his final decision would really be, and it came to them with a shock of surprise and disgust. For two days later, they learned that Dave Ellis had suddenly left school, and a week after that, Jim Putnam burst quickly into d.i.c.k's room, where he and Allen sat studying.

"Golly, fellows," he shouted; "what do you think now? Dave's got it in for us, all right. He's entered Hopevale, and I'll bet a dollar it costs us the cup."

CHAPTER VII

A BATTLE ROYAL

It was four o'clock on a bright, warm afternoon in early May. Mr.

Fenton, walking briskly toward the athletic field, stopped for a moment at the entrance, to gaze at the scene before him. In the ball-field, beyond the grandstand, the nine was playing a practice game against the subs. The tennis courts were filled, and the track and field men were putting the finishing touches to their afternoon's work. Ned Brewster, captain of the track team, was standing by the side of the high-jump path, and Mr. Fenton, as he crossed the field, stopped for a moment to talk with him. "Well, Ned," he queried, "what are our prospects? Will we draw first blood in the track meet next week, or will Ellis' desertion cost us the games?"

Brewster hesitated. "I don't really know, sir," he said at last. "A week ago, I should have said that everything looked fine, but now I'm not so sure. You see, Greenough's injury makes a big difference. I think he would have been certain of the hundred, and would have taken second in the two twenty, besides, but pulling that tendon puts him out of everything. The doctor says he can't possibly go into the meet.

"And then there's d.i.c.k Randall--I was never more disappointed in a fellow in my life. A fortnight ago, he was coming fast--his friend McDonald was simply doing wonders with him. Why, one Sat.u.r.day afternoon I went over there with d.i.c.k, and he was certainly in great form. I measured everything myself, or really I could hardly have believed it. He did five seven in the high, and he cleared the bar by an inch and a half at that. He did twenty feet ten and a half in the broad, on his first try, and McDonald told him not to jump any more-- that that was good enough. And then he took his six tries with the shot, and did thirty-eight three. McDonald told me that day that if he could bring d.i.c.k up a little in the hammer, and if he'd get a little faster at the hundred and the hurdles, that he'd give Ellis and Johnson the fight of their lives in the Pentathlon. And then, just when all he needed was a little improvement, instead of going ahead, he started to go back, and he's been growing steadily worse ever since. It doesn't seem to be his fault, you know; he feels more disappointed about it than any one. He never sports at all, and he's the most conscientious worker on the squad. But there's something wrong. He isn't nearly so good as he was two weeks ago. You just watch him now. The bar is only five feet four."

Mr. Fenton looked on attentively, as Randall prepared to jump. There seemed to be a nervous hesitancy about his style. He started twice on his run before he could seem to catch step correctly, and even then, he ran more slowly than usual, as if he lacked confidence in himself, and rose awkwardly at the bar, without much of his former spring. Yet even with these faults, the attempt was none the less a good one. His body was higher than the stick, and he seemed, indeed, just on the point of clearing it in safety; but the necessary momentum was lacking, and despite his efforts, he fell heavily on the bar, knocking it off for the third successive time. He walked dejectedly out of the pit, and stood gazing at the uprights with wrinkled brow, as if striving to figure out the reason for his failure. Mr. Fenton walked over to him. "That was a good try, Randall," he said cheerfully. "A little more speed, and you would have had it. How are you feeling these days? Pretty well?"

d.i.c.k paused a moment before answering. "Well, to tell the truth, sir,"

he said at last, "I don't know what's got into me lately. I was doing quite well, two weeks ago, but now I'm no good at all. My weight is all right, and I feel all right, but I don't seem to have any ginger about me. Why, a month back I should have laughed at five feet four; I should have called that just a practice jump; and now today I try my hardest, and miss it three times running. And I've gone back in the broad jump--I can't do twenty feet now--and I'm not up to standard with the shot, either. The hammer is the only thing I've improved with, and I was so bad with that I couldn't very well have grown worse. Taking everything together, I'm really doing about as badly as a fellow could; and I don't see what the trouble is. I never practised so hard; I never thought so much about my events; I'm really discouraged."

Mr. Fenton glanced him over critically, from head to foot. He seemed worried and anxious, and while he appeared to be well up in weight, and while his muscular development was better than ever, his color was none too good, and his face looked somewhat drawn. Mr. Fenton gave a little nod, like a doctor who diagnoses a patient's condition. "Well, you look pretty well," he said, "but of course you've been doing quite a lot of work. I should say, in the trainers' language, that you were a little 'fine.' Why don't you take a rest, a complete rest, from now until the day of the games?"

d.i.c.k shook his head, without intending it, a little impatiently. "Oh, I couldn't, Mr. Fenton," he answered. "There's so much to learn yet, if I go into the Pentathlon. There's a knack I'm trying to work out in the broad jump, and that confounded hammer does bother me so. I think and think about it, and finally I imagine I've got the idea, and then I go out the next day and practise, and find I'm worse than ever. Why, one night, I even dreamed about it. I thought I threw it two hundred and fifty feet, and broke the world's record. Oh, but it felt fine. I was taking three turns, and spinning around like a top, and when I let it go, it went sailing off as high as the roof of a house. So the next morning I tried to remember how I stood in my dream, and how I swung the hammer, and everything, and then I went out in the afternoon and tried to put it all into practice and what do you suppose? I fouled about a mile, and got all tangled up in my feet, and fell down, and pretty nearly broke my neck; so I've lost all faith in dreams."

Mr. Fenton smiled. "I don't blame you," he answered, then added, "How have you been sleeping this last week or two, Randall? As well as when you came here first?"

d.i.c.k hesitated; then a little unwillingly replied, "Why, I haven't been sleeping so awfully well. It seems to take me a long time to get to sleep, to start with, and then I usually have some crazy nightmare or other about athletics, and then I wake up with a jump about three or four in the morning, and can't get to sleep again. But I feel all right, just the same. I'm not sick, sir."

Mr. Fenton laughed. "No, you look fairly rugged to me," he answered; "but take a rest from now on, Randall. Don't do any more work to-night; go in and get your rub; and forget all about athletics for a while."

d.i.c.k nodded, picked up his sweater, and jogged off across the field.

The master walked back to where Brewster was standing. "Well, Ned, there's no mystery about your Pentathlon man," he said, "it's as clear as day. He's going 'stale,' as the trainers say; he's been doing too much work. I don't mean too much for his health. That's all right, or the doctor would have notified me. But Randall's a fellow with nerves, in spite of his strength. And he's lost just enough energy, with all the work he's been doing, to take the edge off his speed and his spring. You must tell him to quit, right where he is; to lock up his spikes and his athletic clothes; and not to come near the track again until the day of the games. If he will do that, you will have him ready for the meet, in as good shape as he ever was in his life. I feel sure of it."

That evening Brewster went over the whole situation with d.i.c.k, and gave him his orders, to be carried out to the very letter. d.i.c.k promised to obey, and yet to keep from worrying was no easy task. The whole school could talk of nothing but the coming games. Every one was going around, with paper and pencil, figuring the final distribution of the points. There were twelve events altogether; first place counted five, second two, and third one; a total of ninety-six. School spirit ran high, and no one figured in any other way except to give Fenton the victory. Forty points was the favorite figure, and about thirty each for Hopevale and Clinton. It was an interesting, if rather unprofitable employment. And for d.i.c.k to keep out of the prevailing excitement was next to impossible, especially when his schoolmates would say, "We've got you figured for second in the high, d.i.c.k," or "Do you think you can get third in the broad?"

Again, the program of resting, and keeping away from the field, worried him more than anything else. Accustomed as he was to his daily exercise, his muscles, after the first day's lay-off, began to stiffen, and lacking the experience to know that this was something which would disappear with his rub-down, and his first trial jump in the compet.i.tion, d.i.c.k fretted over it as if it had been some serious muscle strain. Yet somehow, the week went by, and the day of the games came at last.

It was a perfect afternoon, just pleasantly warm and still, with no wind to trouble the distance runners on either stretch. The games were scheduled for two o'clock. By one, the Clinton athletes had arrived; shortly afterward, the Hopevale team put in an appearance; and by half-past one the grandstand and the bleachers were filled, and the boys were beginning to limber up on the track. Dave Ellis, with the blue "H" of Hopevale on his chest, seemed in nowise embarra.s.sed at thus revisiting his old quarters, but came out to practise with the rest, and put the shot well over thirty-eight feet in a preliminary try. Shortly afterward, d.i.c.k had his first glimpse of Johnson, the mainstay of the Clinton team. He was a good-looking, pleasant-faced boy, who went about his "warming-up" so quietly and un.o.btrusively that one would scarcely have selected him, at first, for an athlete of prominence. Yet d.i.c.k, watching the play of his long, smooth muscles, and noting how easily and springily he moved up and down the track, knew that he was looking at a first-cla.s.s man.

Promptly, at five minutes before two, the clerk of the course came hurrying across the field. "All out for the hundred," he called, "hundred yards, last call. All out for the hundred." The games had begun at last.

d.i.c.k took his seat on the balcony of the dressing-room, and gazed out at the animated scene. All at once it occurred to him that if he were only a spectator, and not a contestant, he should be thoroughly enjoying the whole affair. It was an inspiriting sight; the level green of the field, the darker oval of the track, the grandstand, bright with color; and now, walking slowly over toward the start of the hundred, the six contestants, two from each team, each bound to do his utmost to score for his school. He could distinguish Steve Lindsay; the tall figure of Harris of Clinton, the favorite, conspicuous in his striped jersey of red and black; and the figures of the two Hopevale men, of whom little was known, with the light blue "H. A. A." on their shirts. There was the usual warming-up, a word or two of caution from the starter, and then his whistle blew loud and shrill. There came an answering wave of a handkerchief from the spot where the judges and timers stood grouped around the tape.

In the hush that followed, d.i.c.k could hear the starter's voice sound sharp and clear across the field. "On your marks!" The six figures crouched. "Get set!" They bent forward, tense, expectant. And then a puff of smoke from the starter's upraised pistol--"Bang!" and they were off, to a perfect start. d.i.c.k's hands clenched; his eyes strained to distinguish the entries from his school. For a moment the crowd was silent, and then, as the first thirty or forty yards were covered, and the runners began to separate and draw apart, there arose a tumult of shouts and cheers, above it all the cries from Fenton, "Lindsay!

Lindsay! Lindsay!" It was true enough. Lindsay was ahead, a foot or two in front of Adams of Hopevale, with Harris several yards behind.

At fifty yards it was the same--and at sixty--and then all at once Harris seemed to settle to his stride. He drew up on the leaders with a rush, at eighty yards was on even terms, and then, forging steadily ahead, crossed the line a safe winner, with Lindsay just beating out Adams for second place. In a moment, d.i.c.k could hear the scorer's stentorian tones echoing over the field. "Hundred yards dash--won by Harris of Clinton; Lindsay of Fenton, second; Adams of Hopevale, third; time, ten and two-fifths seconds." And then, on the big score board at the end of the field, the huge figures were hoisted that all might see.

Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale

5 2 1

With the cheers of the Clinton delegation still ringing out on the air, the runners came jogging back to the dressing-rooms, and the next event--the hundred and twenty yards high hurdles--was called. Already the men employed on the field were setting out the obstacles on the track. There were but four entries, for Barker and Jones, the Hopevale hurdlers, so far outcla.s.sed their field that Arnold of Clinton, and Taylor of Fenton had been entered with no hope of first or second, but merely to battle for the single point which would reward third place.

Yet the race displayed the uncertainties of athletics in general, and of the high hurdles in particular; for while Barker, the winner of the previous year, took the lead at the start, and was never headed, Jones, his team-mate, loafing comfortably along in second place, got in too close at the sixth hurdle, struck it heavily, staggered a few steps, and plunged headlong into the seventh, bringing it down with him to the ground. After this disaster, there was no hope of a recovery, and Arnold took second place, and Taylor third, making unexpected and welcome additions to the winnings of their schools. The figures on the blackboard were shifted, and Clinton's lead was reduced, while the Fenton score looked somewhat small beside the other two.

Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale

7 3 6

So ran the totals, and even as d.i.c.k studied them, the clerk's cry sounded quick and sharp, "All out for the quarter; all out for the mile; all out for the pole vault, hammer throw, broad jump." d.i.c.k started. For the moment he had almost forgotten that he was to compete at all. Quickly coming to himself, he rose, picked up his spikes, and made his way down-stairs and across the field. Just ahead of him were Harry Allen, Jack Morrison and Jim Egan, the three Fenton entries in the quarter, and Brewster himself, rated as sure winner of the mile, came jogging up behind him, and fell into step by his side. "How's your courage, old man?" he asked.

"Oh, pretty fair," d.i.c.k answered, "we haven't made much of a start, though."

Brewster shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, never mind the hundred and the hurdles," he said, "we didn't count on much there, anyway. But we'll score big in the quarter, I think; and if I don't go to pieces in the mile, we might get something there, too. You tear down at that old take-off, now, d.i.c.k, and we'll rip those A's off your shirt for you to-night. You get us a point, anyway."

"I'll do my best," d.i.c.k replied, and an instant later he was answering to his name, with the half-dozen other contestants in the event.

Stripping off his sweater, he took an easy practice jump, and as he did so, a great load seemed lifted from his mind. He knew that he had recovered his spring, and the excitement of the compet.i.tion made him feel that he could beat anything he had done in practice. "I guess Mr.

Fenton knew what was the matter with me, all right," he murmured to himself.

His name was the first called. He made his mark at exactly fifty feet from the take-off, laid the sleeve of his sweater at the edge of the path, and walked back another forty feet or so for his preliminary run. He tried to remember all the instructions that McDonald had given him, but in his excitement, he could think of little more than of hitting his mark correctly, and of getting a good lift into the air.

"All ready," cried the scorer, "Randall, Fenton, first try."

d.i.c.k stood erect, drew a long breath, and then, with muscles tense and rigid, began his run. One--two--three--four--five--six-- seven--eight--came his preliminary strides, and he sensed, rather than knew, that he had brought the toe of his jumping shoe just even with the sweater's crimson sleeve. And then, for the last eight strides, he ran with every ounce of energy he possessed; bang, he hit the take-off fair and square, and landed far out in the pit, his knees thrown well in front of him. There was a ripple of applause from the grandstand, and he knew that the jump must at least have been a fair one. He stood waiting at the side of the pit, while the measurers did their work.

Then the man at the farther end of the tape straightened up, announcing, "Twenty feet, six and one-quarter."

d.i.c.k jogged back, well satisfied. The distance was nearly as good as his best, and he felt confident of qualifying for the finals. Two or three of the other contestants jumped in the neighborhood of nineteen feet, and then Harding of Hopevale jumped twenty feet, three. No one else equalled d.i.c.k's mark until Johnson's name was called. The Clinton athlete stood waiting for the dirt to be raked over in the pit, and d.i.c.k found himself, half against his will, admiring the Pentathlon man's graceful, clean-cut build. He was an inch or two taller than d.i.c.k, not so broad-shouldered or so muscular, but with that indefinable stamp of the athlete, which for want of a better word, we characterize as "rangy." As he started for his jump, d.i.c.k watched him critically, noticing that he ran hard, with his knees lifted well into the air, and then, as Johnson struck the take-off, and leaped, he gave a little gasp of surprise. Here was form, indeed, beside which the efforts of the others appeared as nothing. This was no mere run from the board; it was a real jump. Johnson shot into the air, feet in front of him, sailing along like a cannon ball. Instantly, the grandstand burst into a shout of applause. From the Clinton section came a continued burst of organized cheering, and the announcer threw an extra impressiveness into his voice as he shouted, "Mr. Johnson jumps twenty-one, three and three-quarters."

Johnson came walking back, a smile on his face. d.i.c.k accosted him good-naturedly. "That was a dandy," he said. "You can have this event, I guess. You won't have to jump again."

Johnson took the other's speech in good part. "Oh, I don't know," he answered, sitting down at d.i.c.k's side and drawing his bath-robe around his knees. "You can't ever tell till the last man's had his last try."