Part 7

At this very foolish and boasting remark, involving also a reflection on Jack's prowess, I could see Kitty's eyes flash, and her cheeks redden, and then there came over her face a very peculiar expression of determination I could not at all understand. She changed gradually from indifference to interest, and finally said, with a well-assumed air of admiration, "It must be splendid to be so sure of winning; and don't you have to train at all?"

"Deuced little," he answered; "I go through the motions with old Brown, but eat and drink just what I like, and sleep four or eight hours, as I prefer."

Now, this was a bare-faced lie, and his sin found him out as quickly as in any "goody" book I ever read, for Kitty went on to say in her pretty way, becoming every moment more genial and fascinating, "Isn't that nice? then you can take a soda with me before I start for home."

Remember that I was all the time in the back room with Mr. Holden, listening to the talk, rather hot under the collar at Black's "old played-out martinet," and wondering what in the world little Kitty was plotting.

Black looked a bit doubtful at her offer; he had trained to the dot, and did not mean to throw away a single chance to win, but such an invitation from Kitty was an unheard-of honor, he could not very well eat his words, so he consented with an assumed alacrity, and Kitty proceeded to draw a glass of soda for him.

And such a glass of soda as it was! If Mr. Holden had seen it he would have had a fit; nothing like it had ever gone over his counter, expense was not considered, and profit there could have been none. I could see the whole devil's brew myself, but Black could not, for Kitty stood between him and the glass.

First she put in a double quantity of heavy, thick chocolate, then a liberal lump of ice-cream, and finally hardly enough soda to mix them. She drew a glass of Vichy for herself, and I watched as they drank, and chatted, and laughed together.

Now, what were the reasons why I did not interfere, while my best mile-runner was getting outside of this horrible mixture?

The first was, that we did not need him to win the "mile"; the second was, that his remarks concerning myself were not inclined to make me care for him personally; the third was, that I thought defeat might teach him a much-needed lesson; and the last and most potent, I must confess, was, that I had not the heart to spoil Kitty's wicked little game, which she was playing so beautifully.

As I said before, it was as clear a case of "fix" as if she had given him a drug, and between a mild dose of poison and the glass she mixed, there was little for an athlete in training to choose.

I sat in the back room for at least a half-hour longer, and saw Black drink three more glasses of different flavors, chosen with special reference to their baleful effects; and so pleasant and jolly was Kitty, and so happy was Black, that I am sure she could have substituted a dose of rhubarb without his notice.

It was after ten o'clock when Kitty put on her hat, and I afterward learned that she talked a full hour longer with him at her gate, an unheard-of thing for Kitty, who was particularly careful of gossip, and it was midnight when he rolled into bed.

He must have had the digestion of an ostrich not to have been immediately and positively ill; but he was not, and barring a little lack of color, he gave no indication of his previous night's extraordinary training, when he went to the mark for the mile.

It had been a mighty busy day for me; the boys were young, some of them had never been contestants before, and they were nervous and uncertain. I got through the morning as best I could, giving advice here, answering a question there, telling some little fellow with a white face that there was no doubt of his winning, and another, who was over-confident, that he had no chance unless he followed instructions to the dot.

Dinner over (for at our boarding-house we dined at noon) I started for the "grounds," which were over on the other side of the little town. The wide street was well dotted with carriages, and the sidewalks crowded with townspeople, country folk, and a liberal sprinkling of the supporters of the rival academy. Most of the mill-hands were out, and the rattle of the looms was subdued, half of them being silent.

I threaded my way through the mob as best I could, for, every few feet, some one would buttonhole me to ask a fool question. Then again, did you ever notice how much harder it is to work your way through a crowd of country people than one of equal density in the city? There is a sluggishness and inertness very different from the quick movements of those whose feet are accustomed to tread city paves.

However, when I got beyond the shopping quarter, where the dwelling-houses began, the streets were free enough, and I crossed over to the south side, the day being warm, and the shade of the elms grateful. I was passing Holden's store, when Kitty appeared in the doorway, as if by accident, and with a very pretty look of mingled surprise and pleasure. She looked as if she had just arrived from Arcadia, or had stepped out of a Dresden dish, with her fresh muslin figured with little sprays of flowers, a big hat on her soft brown hair, and a parasol in her hand which displayed the academy color.

Her cheeks were bright, and grew a shade brighter as she asked, "Please, Mr. Brown, may I walk along with you?" Receiving my very hearty assent she tripped down the steps and across the street, taking special pains to save the figured muslin from the dust of the street. I think I said that Kitty's ankles were irreproachable.

Although it was very evident Kitty had been to some pains to see me, I found her very silent and preoccupied. She had said not much more than a silly word or two about the weather, when we reached the Lee place, where she said she must leave me, as she had promised to stop for Sally and Kate. As she put her hand on the latch of the gate she gave me the first hint of what was burdening her mind by asking, "Are the boys all feeling well?"

I said, "Yes, as far as I know," and then to try her, "though Black looks a bit queer, for some unaccountable reason."

"That's too bad," answered Kitty, with considerable affectation of sorrow, as she swung the gate open; but I noticed a little widening of the mouth, and a tell-tale dimple in her cheek almost betrayed her. Not once did she raise her eyes to mine either, something very unusual with her, for she had the frankest glance possible.

I watched her as she mounted the steps and rang the bell, and then walked on beneath the tall elms, philosophizing over that most interesting subject, "a woman and her ways," something the masculine mind cannot understand, but likes to struggle with.

The track was in the centre of the "campus," an enclosure of several acres of soft green turf, fringed and fenced by its row of tall trees. Around the track the spectators were gathering, and the grand stand was beginning to fill. All the officials and most of the contestants were already inside the ropes, the former bustling around with their bright-colored badges flapping, and extremely busy doing nothing; the latter, in their spotless trunks and jerseys, with bare brown legs and arms, looking "sweet enough to kiss," so I heard a pretty little matron say on one of the lower seats. Indeed, I know few finer sights than a young fellow, clean-limbed and lithe, trained to perfection, with eyes bright, and face darkened by the sun, waiting in his running-togs, with a background of green grass, and overhead the cloudless sky.

As soon as I got among them, the boys flocked around me, and after a hearty word or two I sent the team off by the catcher's fence, a little beyond, for there were no dressing-rooms, and I wanted to know where to find them. Jack was looking "finer than silk," and Black not half bad, although a trifle dark under the eyes. I was not at all sure that even Kitty's dose was enough to stop him.

Now, I do not propose to say a word about any event but the "mile." This was the last event on the list, we were comfortable winners already, and everybody was speculating how badly Black would fracture the record; there seemed to be no doubt about his winning, and, unpopular as he was, it was with many admiring exclamations that he ran a few yards to limber up. His long legs moved like clock-work, and his stride was remarkable.

We had just lost the final heat of the "220," and when the starter's whistle blew for the "mile" I could see the faces brighten up, for it was confidently expected that Black and Harris would run first and second, and leave a pleasant taste in the mouth to take home to supper.

There were six starters, and when Jack took his place on the outside, he was the finest-looking boy of the lot. Not having grown so fast, he was more rounded and filled out than the others, though he carried not an ounce of useless tissue. His arms and legs were better developed, and his face was clean cut as a cameo.

Kitty sat directly on a line with the tape, on the top row of seats, between the Lee girls. One of them, I could see, was keeping a watchful eye on the west, where the thunder heads were gathering.

But Kitty did not see any clouds, not she. She did not care if the deluge came after this race; and what was a shower, or a wet gown? She was red and pale by turns, breathing hard, and had both elbows on the top rail behind her, as if to brace herself for the ordeal. Wonderfully attractive was she in this attitude of repressed excitement, and though the grand stand was full of pretty girls, dressed in their best bibs and tuckers, I saw none to compare with her.

When Jack glanced up at her, she leaned forward and waved her hand, giving him a look that brought the color to his cheeks. But when he turned, got on his mark, and put out his hands, his flush faded, the half smile disappeared, and in their place came as stern a look of resolution as I ever saw in a boy's face.

And yet I doubted he could win.

True, he was just the one to do a shade better in competition than in training, but Black was likely to do no worse (unless pulled back by the sodas), and with a strong five seconds to the good, it was a beautiful race to guess on.

"Marks! Set!" The bang of the pistol, with its little wreath of smoke rising in the still air, and they are off. "Crunch, crunch, crunch" sound the quick feet on the cinders, a stout fellow, not half trained, taking the lead, and bound to drop out before the "half," unless I am no judge. They disappear a second behind the catcher's fence, emerge again, swing round the turn, straighten out again, and the men are well trailed, as usual, at the lower turn. Down the stretch they come, and just before they pass the posts Black jumps into the lead, amid the applause of the grand stand. Where is Jack? Why, where he ought to be with the pace like this, and three-quarters more to run. He has followed my orders to the dot, starting off easily (one of the almost impossible things to teach a young runner), trailing behind the field, and he finishes the first quarter last of the six, and a full twenty yards behind Black, running strong and well, though not so showily as his rival.

I see poor little Kitty's face grow white and hopeless as they go by.

Round the track they swing again, two men dropping out at the lower turn, already run off their feet, and one of them the stout fellow, as I expected. Indeed, as they pass the posts the second time all have come back a bit to Jack but Black, and Kitty's face is touched by grim despair, for that dreadful twenty yards still stretches between the one she wishes to win and the one she tried to put out of the race.

On the third quarter Jack lets out a link, picking up one after another, until only Black leads him, and when they start on the last lap he is running strong and fairly fresh, only ten yards behind, and the rest trailed badly.

Kitty's face is the queerest mixture of hope and fear I ever saw.

Black runs with the confidence of repeated victories in trials, and attempts to open up the gap again; but Jack has a bit up his sleeve still, answers with a little spurt of his own, will not be denied, and is only a bare five yards to the bad as they straighten out for the last hundred yards.

Here Black glances over his shoulder, and I can see his look of surprise. Jack has never been so close up at this stage of the game. It is evident that both the boys are approaching "Queer Street," "Queer Street" with its pounding heart and panting lungs, its parched mouth, singing ears, and leaden feet. Both are game to the core, and it is now only a question of endurance. Here is the runner's purgatory, where the sins of the past are settled, and here it is that Kitty's ice-cream sodas take a hand in the sport.

What would Black give if he had not imbibed their awful sweetness?

Inch by inch Jack draws up on him, his jaw set, his eyes aflame, his stride shortening, but still quick and straight. Black's face is leaden, his eyes glassy, his long legs giving at the knees at every stride.

Down the stretch they come, the crowd on its feet, but too excited to yell, Kitty with her hand over one eye, and her handkerchief tight between her white teeth.

For twenty yards they run almost side by side, and then Jack pumps ahead and breaks the tape, a winner by a scant yard. Black follows over in a heap, staggers a step or two, and falls before any one can catch him.

Sick, was he? Well, rather!

He had a touch of colic that doubled him up like a grasshopper. He groaned and coughed, he writhed and twisted, like a lobster on the coals. I knew it was not a dangerous matter, and gave him little sympathy, extracting a half confession concerning his training escapade of the previous evening.

Kitty, the little Jezebel, blushed like a rose when Jack waved his hand at her, as he was carried off on the shoulders of some enthusiastic friends.

Little did he know how he came to win over a faster man; little did Black understand there had been a plot for his undoing; and unless she reads this story, Kitty will always think her secret is a secret to all the world.

Back in the mountains of North Carolina, where the air is like a tonic, free from all taint of river mist and swamp malaria, and medicined by the fragrance of pine and hemlock, lives Teddy Atherton.

His house is perched on a spur of the mountains, and can be seen with a good glass from Asheville on a clear day. It has green blinds, tall wooden pillars, and granite steps. It is the pattern that New England builders used to fancy fifty years ago or more, and looks a bit strange in its setting of mountain and forest. Here Teddy spends his time among his books, fishing and hunting, in the company of his dogs, or the society of an occasional friend, truant from business or profession.

For a few weeks only in midsummer he risks the dangers of our east winds, and is seen at the Somerset and Country Clubs, much to the gratification of a host of friends.

He has had me South with him a couple of times, and never goes back without inviting me to dine with him. I always accept, though the pleasure of his society is more than offset by painful recollections. We linger long at the table over my favorite madeira, and we talk of the old days, the old contests, and the old boys, grown now to be stout merchants, lawyers, and I know not what. Some of them have lads who will bring new honor to names already famous on track and field, and some, alas! have been beaten out by that famous runner and certain final winner, old Death himself.

Often, as I sit and watch Atherton across the table, there comes into my eyes, not at all accustomed to such a freak, so clear a hint of moisture, that nothing but a mighty volume of smoke saves me from detection.

He is a small man, five feet five or less, and not exceeding eight stone in weight. His closely shaven face is thin and brown, his eyes dark and full of fire, his mouth firm and sensitive. There is nothing of the despairing or helpless invalid about him; his shoulders are square, and his movements resolute; yet he knows, and I know, that his life hangs by a thread. I know whose fault it is, in part at least, that his days are numbered, that his chest is hollow, and that, despite his self-control, he cannot restrain every now and again that hacking cough.

I shall tell the story, not because I like to, but as a warning to those who are willing to make a winner, no matter what the risk or cost.

Late on an afternoon, just before the inter-collegiate games of 188-, there sat on the gymnasium steps a group of college sports, with heavy brows and serious minds.

Even the weather was dubious, for the wind had worked round into the east, the clouds were gathering, and the air was damp and dismal. What few men there were on the track wore sweaters, and one or two had pulled long trousers over their trunks to keep their legs warm. The elms had got their heads together, as if conspiring mischief, and we had talked ourselves pretty well out, with no good results.

We had that day given the team a serious "try out," and were fairly contented with its showing in all the events but the "half."

There was no question about it, Bates could not call the trick; that is, not with his present showing.

We all agreed that he was good enough, but he had no head at all. He ran his second quarter to the "queen's taste," and finished strong and well; but on his first lap he sogered like a Turk, and came in at least five seconds slow. He had no idea whatever of pace, was not a sprinter, and was easy for any opponent with a turn of speed, who would trail him round and pass him in the stretch.

We had told Sherman (who had no chance to win, and knew it) to run the first lap in fifty-nine, instructing Bates to stay with him. Bates stayed all right, but Sherman was as far off as the man he paced,--in the first trial running in sixty-three, which was as bad as ever; and in the second pulling him out to fifty-six, so that neither finished.

The question was, who should make pace for Bates.

There were, sprawling on the steps that night, beside myself, Griffith, Smith, "Doc," and of course Tom Furness, for Tom had missed few such conclaves in the last half-dozen years.

Now, the public knows pretty well who wins the events, but mighty little about the planning and contriving by which the athletic material of a college is developed and made the most of. Upon us five rested much of the responsibility for making winners of the team of 188-. With me it was a matter of business and professional standing; to the others, the glory of their college, and the personal satisfaction of having added to it. All of them were practical men, who had in days gone by carried their college colors, and Tom Furness had been a mighty good athlete, who had put a record where it stood untouched for a good five years. Tom was tall, fair, and sanguine. An optimist by nature, he never dreamed of anything but success, was a favorite with the graduates, while the college worshipped him. I never saw the man who could put heart into a losing team like Tom Furness.

Just below him sat "Doc" Peckham, dark and silent. He was short and brown bearded, the very opposite of Tom, and had a rather embarrassing way of puncturing Tom's pretty bubbles. He was not so well liked as Furness, but was after all fully as valuable an adviser. He had a good practice in the city, but managed, in some way, to leave it whenever he was needed. Griffith and Smith were men who, as a rule, agreed with the majority, and myself in particular; so they were quite as useful as if they had been perpetually inventing foolish plans.

We had been silent a full minute, which is not long for a crowd of college "gray-beards," when Tom Furness jumped to his feet with the air of a man who has made up his mind, expects opposition, but is still confident of the integrity of his position, and said, "Teddy Atherton's our man."

"Teddy Atherton be blowed," said "Doc," who sat on the bottom step, his knees under his chin, drawing inspiration from his pipe. "He's run nothing but the 'quarter' for the last three years, and while he shows a fraction slower than Allen and Waite in practice, has a better head, and I would not give a toss-up for the difference between them."

"That's it," said Furness; "it's Teddy's good head that we want. Now listen to me. We have three 'quarter milers' who finish under a blanket, and any one of them is about good enough to win. Allen has shown a shade the best time, and we certainly cannot pull him out, while Waite would sulk like a bear with a sore head if asked to make pace, and probably be worse than useless. Atherton, beside having better judgment, is a particularly unselfish chap, and if handled right will consent, and fill the bill exactly."

"Deuced hard on Atherton," said Smith; "he's trained faithfully, has a chance to win in the 'quarter,' and yet we ask him to sacrifice himself in the 'half' because Bates is a duffer and will not use his head."

We discussed the matter a while longer, and had barely arrived at an agreement, when who should come briskly from the gymnasium but Teddy himself. He jumped down the steps, and was hurrying away, with a joke at our serious faces, when I spoke up and said (for such uncomfortable commissions were usually assigned to me), "Wait a minute, Atherton, we want a word with you."

"All right, old man," he said, "but be quick about it, for I've a dinner waiting for me that will be cold after seven o'clock." He was fresh from his shower-bath and rub-down, and looked as if he had stepped out of a bandbox. We could guess where the dinner was, for Atherton was very serious about Mollie Kittredge; and whether Mollie smiled or not, Mollie's mamma was complacent enough, and did her best to give Teddy a clear track and no contestants. Mollie was a howling favorite, "blonde, bland, and beautiful," who, it was rumored, did not care to be won by a "walk-over," and would have liked Teddy better if he had been a bit more difficult.

Now, I believe it is best to go at once to the point with a disagreeable matter, so I said bluntly, "I'm sorry, Atherton, but we have decided to ask you to run in the 'half'; it is a late day to make the change, and it will, of course, give you no chance to win; but it seems to us the only thing to do under the circumstances."

The boy winced, looked at us keenly to see if we were serious, then grew grave and said, rather sarcastically, "Your reasons for selecting me in particular as the scape-goat are of course good and sufficient, and you will pardon me for asking what they are?"

I went over the matter with him in detail, assisted by Furness, giving all our reasons, doing my best to make the project as inviting as possible; and Atherton finally consented, as we expected. It was, however, a very serious face he carried off, and one very different from that which smiled upon us at the beginning. We were all mighty sorry for the boy, and I felt as if I had committed a petty theft, and deserved the penitentiary, or worse. I had only been the spokesman for the rest, and had racked my brains to think of some way to save Atherton from the sacrifice; but Tom was really unassailable in his position, and even "Doc" did not oppose him.

I watched the lithe figure as it disappeared around the corner of the fence, realizing how full of disappointment my message must have been, and was sorry enough about it.

Atherton had arrived at college without either athletic training or ambition. A student of the first rank, so that he was known at once where muscular ability is much more likely to obtain recognition than mental strength, it was not until his second year that I saw much of him.