Then, after a little pause, he added, "Are you going to try the Pentathlon, Randall?"

d.i.c.k nodded. "I think so," he answered, "though I don't expect to do much against you and Ellis. Still, I guess I'll give it a try, anyway.

There doesn't seem to be any one else to represent the school. But if I can't win," he added, "I tell you, right now, I hope you give Ellis the worst licking he ever had in his life."

Johnson nodded. "I know just how you fellows feel about Ellis," he said, "and I don't blame you a bit. A chap that will leave his school in the lurch like that can't have much of the right stuff in him. But I don't know about licking him. He's awfully good in the weights. And the Hopevale crowd say that since he came there he's improved a lot, too. I don't know whether it's so or not, but they claim he's beating forty feet with the shot, right along. And that he's throwing the hammer a hundred and sixty. But you can't tell. They may be trying to scare us, so we'll think it's no use to enter, even. Never can tell beforehand--that's my motto in athletics."

d.i.c.k nodded, and was about to answer, when the scorer called, "Randall, second try." d.i.c.k rose, and was making ready for his run, when the scorer waved him back. "No, don't jump, Mr. Randall," he cried. "Sit down again, please. Wait till they run the quarter mile."

d.i.c.k nodded, and complied. Every eye in the field was turned on the start of the quarter. The nine athletes stretched straight across the track. d.i.c.k saw that Morrison of his own school was on the pole; that Harry Allen was sixth in line, and that their third entry, Egan, was on the extreme outside. "Bang!" went the pistol, and the runners were off, in a mad burst for the lead to the first turn. There was little to be distinguished for a moment or two, and then, as they rounded and squared away for the back stretch, d.i.c.k's heart gave a great leap of excitement. Morrison had held his lead, Egan had cut clean across in front of the others, and was second; only Allen lay back, in seventh position, apparently "pocketed" and unable to extricate himself. Up the stretch they swung, in steady, rhythmical procession; from across the field one would have said that they scarcely moved; so greatly did the added distance deceive the eye. Once a Hopevale runner spurted and tried to pa.s.s the leaders, but they quickened their pace in turn, and he fell back into the ruck, beaten and exhausted. d.i.c.k could not take his eyes from Allen's figure. He hardly realized, until that moment, how much he cared for his friend; he felt as if he himself were running the race; under his breath he was muttering, "Go it, Harry! Go it, old man!"

Around the curve they swung, and squared away for home. A great shout came from the grandstand "Fenton, Fenton, Fenton!" and then "Morrison!

Egan!" "Go it, Morrison! Go it, Egan!" again and again.

It was a Fenton victory; there was no doubt of that. The two runners were yards ahead of the field, and though both were tiring, they seemed certain of keeping their lead to the tape, well ahead of the rest. d.i.c.k felt a mixture of emotions. He was glad, first of all, of course, for the school, and yet, mingled with his joy, there was a tinge of sorrow for his friend. For he knew Allen's ambition had been to wind up his last year with a win, and he felt that after all the work he had done, it would be only a fair reward. Yet, barring the impossible, Allen was beaten. And then, while all these thoughts were flashing through his brain in a hundredth part of the time it takes to put the words on paper, the seemingly impossible did happen. All at once, as d.i.c.k sought for his friend's figure in the struggling ruck, he caught sight of him, running wide on the outside of the field, but cutting loose at last, with all the energy which he had held in reserve, while he had been forced to wait and hang back, pocketed, against his will. He did not merely pa.s.s the wearied runners from the other two schools; he flashed by them as if they had been standing still. It was a sight to bring a crowd to its feet, and to its feet it came.

Never for one instant did Allen's splendid stride relax. His eyes were half closed, his head was thrown a little to one side, his lips were drawn back from his teeth, but he ran like a race-horse, true, steady, and game to the core, putting out the last ounce in him in a finish such as Fenton Field had rarely seen. Twenty yards from the tape he pa.s.sed his schoolmates, still locked shoulder to shoulder, and keeping still to his tremendous pace, swept by the post--a winner.

The whole Fenton section of the stand was in an uproar. First, second and third; a clean sweep--all eight points in the quarter--here was something to buoy up their hopes at last. Nor did this end their good fortune. A moment later the mile runners were started on their long four circuits of the track, and Ned Brewster justified all the predictions that had been made for him. He had the rest of the field outcla.s.sed, and saving himself for the half-mile which was to come later, made no effort at fast time, winning easily in four minutes and forty-eight seconds, with Sheldon of Clinton second, and Marshall of Hopevale third. The scorer at the bulletin board again shifted his big figures, and now they read:

Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale

9 16 7

d.i.c.k went back to his broad jump trials with a light heart. It seemed that the meet was as good as won. On his second trial he stepped over the take-off and made a foul jump, and on his third, in his anxiety not to repeat the mistake, he fell short of the board by almost a foot, and though the actual distance was greater than anything he had yet done, in measurement it amounted to but twenty feet and one-half an inch. Yet he qualified for the finals, for Harding of Hopevale was the only man who bettered his mark to any extent. On his second attempt he cleared twenty feet, eight inches; while Johnson, after his first good jump, waived his next two trials, watching the work of the others to see whether he need jump again, or could save himself for the high.

d.i.c.k had felt himself grow more limber with each successive jump, and now felt sure that if he could once catch the take-off correctly, he could improve his mark. On his first trial, in the finals, he accomplished what he wished, and knew, even while still in midair, that he had excelled his first performance. The measurer pulled the tape up carefully to the mark left by d.i.c.k's heels in the soft, well-rolled earth, and then announced, "Twenty-one one and a half."

d.i.c.k grew suddenly elated. It was the best jump he had ever made. He was ahead of Harding; almost up to Johnson himself. For a moment he even dreamed that he might prove the winner, after all. But his triumph was short-lived. Johnson pulled off his sweater and took his second try, and this time, putting a trifle more speed into his run, cleared twenty-one, seven and a quarter. d.i.c.k failed to improve on his second and third tries, yet he seemed sure of second place until Harding's last jump. The Hopevale man put all his energies into his attempt, and even from where d.i.c.k stood he could tell that the jump was a good one. A moment later the announcer called, "Mr. Harding jumps twenty-one, five," and d.i.c.k was put back to third. Yet he had won a point for the school, and with it the right to wear his "F."

And now the clerk came running up with two sheets of paper in his hand. He gave them to the announcer, who forthwith called out, "Throwing the sixteen-pound hammer--won by Ellis of Hopevale--second, Merrihew of Hopevale--third, Robinson of Fenton. Distance, one hundred and fifty-eight feet, eleven inches."

There followed a storm of cheers from the Hopevale section, and the announcer, raising his hand for silence, continued, "Pole vault, won by Garfield of Fenton--second, Amory of Hopevale--third, Hollingsworth of Hopevale--height, ten feet, six inches." Applause from Fenton, and again from Hopevale, for the second and third had not been looked for.

And now the score board showed:

Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale

14 23 19

Decidedly, matters were growing interesting. The next three track events were run off quickly, and without making much change in the relative positions of the schools. Brewster won the half for Fenton, in the good time of two, two and a quarter, with Cartwright of Hopevale second, and Donaldson of Clinton third. The two-twenty, as is so often the case, resulted exactly as the hundred had done, Harris of Clinton winning in twenty-two and four-fifths, with Lindsay of Fenton second, and Adams of Hopevale third. In the low hurdles Fenton was shut out altogether, while Hopevale was deprived of two points on which she had counted, for though Barker, who had been first in the high, repeated his victory in the longer race, and won handily in twenty-six and three-fifths, Jones' injured knee was too stiff to allow him to start, and Ballantyne and Salisbury of Clinton took second and third for their school. Thus but two events--the shot and the high jump--were left, and the score board showed:

Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale

23 30 17

The shot was called first, and Brewster, his eyes gleaming with excitement, came hurriedly up to d.i.c.k. "Do your best, old man," he whispered. "Every point is going to count now. If you could get second it would be great; even third would help a lot. This is going to be the closest meet we ever had."

d.i.c.k nodded, though feeling little confidence in his chances. Ellis and Merrihew, he considered, were practically sure of first and second; with Ross of Clinton he felt that he had a fighting chance for third. Every eye was turned on the shot ring, and the scorer called, "Ellis of Hopevale, first try."

Ellis, big and strong and brawny, stepped forward with perfect confidence, poised for a moment, and then leaped into his put. Even d.i.c.k, much as he disliked the performer, could not repress a thrill of admiration for the performance. It was a splendid try--clean, fast, with a fine follow--and all done so easily that d.i.c.k could scarcely credit his ears when the measurer gave his result to the announcer, and the latter shouted, "Mr. Ellis puts thirty-nine, four and a half."

Two other contestants made tries which fell five or six feet short of Ellis', and then Ross put thirty-seven, four. Directly after him Merrihew, big and ungainly, with brute strength enough to move a mountain, made a slow, awkward put of thirty-eight, two. Then d.i.c.k's name was called. Again Brewster whispered, "Do your best, old man,"

and Allen slapped him encouragingly on the back. "Remember not to try too hard, d.i.c.k," he said. Both meant their advice in the kindest possible way, but it was a mistake of inexperience. d.i.c.k, for the first time in his athletic career, in a really tight place, felt as if he were moving in a dream, and his schoolmates' words only served to increase his nervousness. He took his place in the ring. The shot seemed to have grown terribly heavy, and forgetting everything that McDonald had been drilling into him for the past weeks, he put blindly, and walked out of the circle, scarcely knowing whether he had done well or ill. There was an ominous silence, and then the scorer announced, "Mr. Randall puts thirty-two, ten and a half."

d.i.c.k felt himself flush. There was a sneer on Ellis' face. He spoke loudly enough for every one around the circle to hear. "That's the Pentathlon man from Fenton," he said to Merrihew. "He's all right, isn't he? He's a dandy."

With an effort d.i.c.k kept control of himself. And then the second round began. It resulted in a general improvement. Ellis put forty feet and one inch; Ross thirty-seven, eleven; Merrihew thirty-eight, nine. When it came d.i.c.k's turn he forced himself to imagine that he was practising alone in McDonald's field, with no crowd to trouble him. He put his whole mind on his form, and as a result, did better, getting in a try of thirty-six, seven. Yet he felt far from satisfied, and all at once it flashed upon him that he was doing the very thing which McDonald had told him, long ago, was his besetting fault, that he was stiffening up too soon in his effort, and not getting the powerful, sweeping drive which made Ellis' trials so successful.

The third round began. Ellis fell back a few inches, putting thirty-nine, ten and a half; Ross improved to thirty-eight, four; Merrihew put an even thirty-nine feet. "Thirty-eight four to beat,"

d.i.c.k kept thinking to himself. He had never done it in practice, but now, if ever, was the time. His name was called. He was perfectly cool by this time; he knew exactly what he wished to do; and poising easily at the back of the ring, he swung into his put, and finished through with every bit of strength he possessed. It was a better try than his others--he knew that, on the instant--but was it good enough for the point. The measurers seemed to take longer than usual over their task.

Finally the announcer cried, "Thirty-eight, three and a half." d.i.c.k turned away, sick at heart. He had failed; the point was lost.

Brewster and Allen were at his side in an instant, cheering him as best they could. "That's all right, old man," Brewster cried; "don't you care. You beat your record. You can't do impossibilities. Don't you mind." But d.i.c.k refused to be comforted. "A half an inch," he kept repeating to himself, over and over again. "The least little bit more ginger; the least little bit better form; a half an inch; confound the luck!" and he sat gloomily watching the finals, which resulted as expected, Ellis first, Merrihew second, Ross third. And the score board showed:

Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale

24 30 34

The high jump alone remained. Brewster figured for a moment, and then came over to d.i.c.k. "I don't want to rattle you, old man," he said, "but there's just one chance in a hundred still. Hopevale hasn't a man that's any good in the high; Clinton's got Johnson and Robinson. If you could get a streak of jumping and beat Johnson, we'd win by a point."

d.i.c.k nodded. "I'll do everything that's in me, Ned," he said quietly, and Brewster felt satisfied with the reply.

The high jump was soon under way. At five feet, two, only Johnson, Robinson and d.i.c.k were left. At five four, Robinson failed, scoring a single point for Clinton. And then ensued a duel between Johnson and d.i.c.k. d.i.c.k was jumping in his old time form, with plenty of speed and spring, and all the stimulus of knowing that he might yet save the day. Both boys cleared five, five, and five, six, in safety. At five, seven, Johnson failed on his first trial, and the Fenton supporters felt a sudden gleam of hope. d.i.c.k made ready for his try, every muscle working in unison, every fiber in his body intent on clearing the bar in safety. He ran down easily, quickened his pace on his last three strides, and leaped. It was a splendid effort, save that he had taken off a trifle too far from the bar. He was almost over and then, in a last effort to work his body clear he lost his balance, just grazing the bar, and fell into the pit, landing with one leg under him. There was a moment's suspense; the bar hung undecidedly, springing up and down under the impact of d.i.c.k's body--and then, just as the Fenton crowd were getting ready to cheer, it gave one final shiver and dropped into the pit at d.i.c.k's side. The cheers were changed to a groan of disappointment, and then the silence grew almost painful as d.i.c.k did not rise. Brewster hurried over to him; Randall's face was white with pain. "Ankle, Ned," he said. "Give me a hand up, please."

A moment later the doctor was examining him. "No break," he announced at last, "and nothing really serious. But that ends it for to-day.

Another wrench, and you can't tell what would happen. Sorry, but it's the fortune of war."

d.i.c.k protested vigorously. "I can get around on it," he cried, "let me jog up and down, Doctor, and then take one more try. I don't care what happens."

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be foolish, d.i.c.k," he said.

"You couldn't jump three feet with that ankle. Don't walk on it, either, you must give it absolute rest."

Yet d.i.c.k insisted, and gamely tried to hobble back to the jumping path. The effort was vain. Things swam around him, and with a long sigh of disappointment he sank back on the ground. "All right, I'll quit," he said, and a moment later Johnson cleared the height, and the games were done.

Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale

30 32 34

It had been the closest meet in the history of the schools. Half an hour later, as d.i.c.k left the locker-room, leaning on Allen's shoulder, he heard Dave Ellis' voice, holding forth to a knot of admiring supporters from Hopevale.

"Turn his ankle? Not a bit of it," he was saying. "That's an old gag.