CHAPTER XXIII

THE BIG HURDLE RACE

“Come on now, fellows, all together!” cried Bean Perkins, the most redoubtable cheer-leader and shouter that Randall ever numbered among her sons. “All together, and we’ll give ’em a song to warm ’em up!”

“What’ll it be?” demanded a lad in the throng that was to urge on the sons of Randall in cheer and chorus. “‘Conquer or die,’ Bean?”

“Naw! Save that song until you see we need it. Give ’em something jolly.”

“How about ‘We’re Going to Wipe the Ground Up, With Boxer Hall To-Day?’” asked another.

“Nothing to it,” replied Bean. “We’ll sing ‘I’d rather be a Randallite, and live on sawdust pie, than go to any other place beneath the bright blue sky!’ That’s the kind of a song they need. All together now.”

“Hurray!”

“That’s the stuff!”

“Sing hearty, everybody!”

“Let her go, Bean!”

These were only a few of the cries that greeted the sturdy little cheer leader who stood before his crowd of lads at Tonoka Park field that day of the great hurdle race. For it had come at last, the day of days--the day that was to usher in the preliminary event in which Randall hoped to triumph.

As had been previously decided the hurdle race, because of the number of entrants, would be run off several days before the other contests. Each college had a number of men who wished to try their skill in this, as it was generally thought that the element of luck would enter largely, and it would be necessary to run a number of heats.

Tom, Sid, and Phil, among others were on hand, the three having all been picked to go in the race. Frank decided not to compete. All of Randall’s contestants were in readiness, and they had scarcely arrived at the field ere they were joined by the throngs from the other institutions. Bean Perkins got his cheersters and songsters at work early, and soon the strains of the different choruses welled over the heads of the crowd.

There was not as large a throng present as would attend at the main meet, but the managers were satisfied. In addition to the hurdle race a number of events for the younger lads in the preparatory departments of each college were to be run off.

Boxer Hall, Fairview and Exter had their cheer leaders at work, and a riot of “melody,” if such it can be called, welled forth. It was a beautifully sunshiny day, just warm enough, and the track, with the new hurdles supplied by Randall, was in perfect shape.

“There are the girls!” exclaimed Phil, as he and his chums started toward the dressing rooms.

This announcement, that never is without its heart-interest, no matter where made, had the usual effect. Tom and Sid at once demanded:

“Where?”

“Right in front of you,” replied Phil. “Can’t you see ’em waving?”

“Let’s go over and say ‘how-d’ye-do,’ and then get into our togs,” proposed Tom. “I don’t want to go over in that crowd after I get into my Roman toga.”

“Bashful!” taunted Frank.

“I’m not so stuck on myself as you are,” retorted Tom, and then he dodged to escape a playful blow.

“Oh, there’s no use asking us to cheer for you,” said Ruth, as her brother and his chums drew near. “We’re loyal to Fairview,” and she waved a flag of her college colors in his face.

“Wait until you’re asked, Sis,” retorted Phil. “We don’t need your cheers. Listen to Bean and his bunch.”

“Once more!” cried the shouter to his crowd. “This time we’ll give ’em ‘Over the hurdles and far away,’ composed especially for this occasion.”

The singing began.

“Mercy! What howling!” cried Madge, in pretended horror.

“It’ll sound sweeter when they sing Randall’s praises,” suggested Tom.

“Now, just for that I won’t speak to you to-morrow,” she said, with a pretended pout.

There was laughter and jollity among the youths and maidens. Tom and his chums greeted old friends and athletic foes from Fairview and Boxer Hall, until Holly Cross, coming along, sarcastically suggested that if there was going to be a hurdle race that day it was time to dress for it.

There were to be four heats, and Tom and Phil found themselves drawn in the first one. Of course in the finals the best men from each college would participate.

The hurdles had been set up, and carefully looked to. Last measurements were taken, and the rules announced once more. It was to be a quarter mile race final, instead of the usual one hundred and twenty yards, for the reason that there were no other big events that day; but the preliminary heats were the regulation distance.

“Get ready!” called the starter, as he raised his pistol and looked at his stop-watch. Tom found himself getting nervous, and he wished that Bean and his crowd would sing, but this could not be done while the start was being made.

“Ready!” shouted the starter.

Crack! sounded the pistol a second later, and there was a spurt of fire and smoke.

Tom found himself well off with the leaders, and a hasty glance back showed Phil on even terms with him. Tom wanted to shout an encouraging word to his chum, but refrained as he knew he would need his breath.

Tom ran as he had seldom run before. He felt that he was in fine trim, and he almost wished it was one of the big events of the main meet, instead of a preliminary hurdle contest. Phil, too, was coming on.

Almost abreast of Tom was Lem Sellig, Frank Sullivan, Roger Barns, and Ted Puder of Fairview, while, a little further on, he made out Dave Ogden, George Stoddard, Pinkey Davenport and Lynn Ralling of Boxer Hall. He saw a number of the Exter lads, but did not know them by name.

Now came the first hurdle. Tom took it easily, and went on without a break in his stride. Not so some of the others who fell back a trifle. Then another stretch, and more hurdles. The pace was beginning to tell on them all.

There was a crash just behind Tom. He half turned his head to look, and saw Phil go down, his foot having caught on a top bar. But the plucky lad was up again in a moment, though he was hopelessly outdistanced.

It was over in what seemed a remarkably short time--that first heat, the best time being a not very remarkable performance. To Tom’s chagrin neither he nor Phil qualified for the finals.

The second batch of runners came up to the marks. Once more they were off, and the crowd set up a cheer. Some of the Randall lads were in this, and Bean and his crowd cheered and sung to them to the echo. One Randallite qualified in this round.

Then came two more heats until the final was about to be run off--the one just before the big quarter-mile race that would decide the championship in that class.

“Do your prettiest!” begged Tom of Jerry and Joe Jackson as they came to the scratch, for they were the Randall representatives now.

“Sure,” they assented.

Once more the pistol cracked, and again the eager lads started off. Joe was well in the lead, taking the hurdles with an ease that surprised his friends, and sent a wave of envy through the hearts of his rivals. Nor was Jerry far behind him.

“He’ll win!” decided Tom.

“Give ’em something to keep ’em going!” cried Bean to his crowd, and forth welled the song: “There’s nothing like a Randallite to do or die, to eat or fight!”

Jerry carried off for Randall first honors of that heat, and so qualified for the final. Sid, too, was also in the class, and with Joe Jackson and others made up those who would try for final honors. There were two lads from Boxer--Dave Ogden and Pinkey Davenport--three from Fairview--Lem Sellig, Frank Sullivan and Roger Barns,--and two from Exter--George Birch and Ted Morrison--who were in the final, making a goodly crowd.

This was to be the supreme test, and on it depended much, for the winner of this race would add a goodly number of points to his college’s total.

They lined up, a throbbing, eager batch of lads, with ears on the alert for the sound of the pistol that was to send them off.

Crack! it came with startling suddenness, and they all sprang forward.

“Now, boys, the ‘Conquer or Die,’ song!” yelled Bean, and the Latin song, which had helped win many a victory under the banners of Randall filled the air. It came at a time when the other college cheering crowds were silent, and produced an unusual effect.

On and on rushed the hurdle racers, panting, fighting for every inch, taking magnificent leaps, to clear the obstacles, covering yard after yard in long strides.

“Jerry’s ahead! Jerry’s ahead!” yelled Tom, dancing about, and clapping Phil on the back until his chum cried for mercy.

“Hey! Let up, will you?” Phil begged. “I want to live to see the finish.”

“Sid’s falling back,” announced Holly, gloomily, as he watched the contestants. “But Joe Jackson is pulling up.”

“There goes Lem Sellig!” cried Tom, as that lad tripped on a hurdle and fell heavily. Several of his friends rushed out and picked him up.

“Go on Sid! Go on!” fairly howled Tom.

“Three cheers for Fairview!” came a shrill cry in girls’ voices, and Tom knew that Madge and her chums were rallying their representatives.

Close behind Jerry came George Birch of Exter. On he raced, magnificently, with a burst of speed.

“Look out, Jerry!” warned Holly, but it was too late.

With a leap George passed his competitor, and forged to the front. Even then Jerry might have caught him had it not been for a slight accident.

There was a cinder sticking up, dislodged from the smooth track by some previous runner, and not before noticed. Jerry trod on it, and his foot gave a twinge. He hesitated a moment, before a hurdle, and the hesitation was fatal to his chances.

He did not clear the barrier, but, though he knocked it over he himself did not fall. But he could not get into his stride again, and, a moment later, he was passed by several others.

“Oh Sid! Sid! It’s up to you!” yelled Phil, but it was not to be. Sid, well to the fore, was doing his best, but he had been depending on Jerry, and it was too late now to make the needful spurt.

Over the finish line burst George Birch, carrying the colors of Exter, and behind him came Frank Sullivan, of Fairview, with Pinkey Davenport, of Boxer Hall, a close third.

Randall had lost!

The echoes of the “Conquer or Die” song rolled away, and there came a silence. It was broken a moment later by a “locomotive-automobile” cheer from the cohorts of Exter, and then the other successful colleges joined in.

The shrill voices of the girls were heard above the hoarser voices of their boy friends, and cheer after cheer rolled out over the field.

With tears in their eyes Phil and Frank and Tom turned away from the track.

“Never mind,” consoled Holly. “Our boys did well, but fate was against us. Better luck in the big games.”

“But we needed these points,” whined Tom.

“I know it, you old grouch. But there’s a chance yet, if we win most of the other events,” declared Kindlings. “Frank, you’ve got to win for us, and so have you, Shambler.”

“I will!” cried the new student, and Tom found himself feeling more generous toward the lad he disliked.

The friends of the winners crowded around them, while those of the losers did their best to cheer them up. Bean Perkins tried to lead his crowd in a jolly song, but it was a failure.

“Let’s get our clothes on and go back,” suggested Sid, gloomily.

“Don’t you want to see the girls?” asked Phil.

“No,” snapped the loser. “I want to sit on the old sofa and hear the clock tick.”

And that was the sentiment of the four inseparables.

They did not stay to see the other events run off, but hurried back to Randall. There was gloom in the college, but it was not hopeless, for all felt that the other games would bring better news.

“We’ve just got to win,” declared Holly, as he sat in the room of the four chums. “I know we can too, for----”

There came a knock on the door, and Tom answered. He found Wallops, the messenger, there.

“Mr. Cross is wanted on the ’phone,” said Wallops.

“Who is it?” asked Holly.

“Mr. Wallace, the athletic manager of Exter college,” was the answer.

“I wonder what he wants?” speculated Holly as he went to answer the call.