CHAPTER XXXIII

TOM’S RUN

“All right, Wallops, tell him I’ll be right over,” said Tom. “I’ll tell Kindlings where I’m going, so he won’t be looking for me. But I’ve got plenty of time before it’s my turn.”

He slipped on a heavy bathrobe, for, in his abbreviated running costume, he was not exactly in shape to go to the grandstand.

“The lawsuit must have gone against dad, or else he’s come to have me go back and testify,” reasoned Tom. “If he’s lost the case, it’s good-bye to Randall for me. But if he wants me to go to court, I’m going to ask him to wait until after the run. I’m not going to desert now. The case will have to wait. But I wonder why dad came, instead of telegraphing? It must be important. I hope nothing else can have happened.”

Anxious thoughts came to Tom, as he made his way through the press of people. His mother or sister might be ill. It was an inopportune time to receive bad news--almost on the instant of entering a race that meant so much to Randall. But Tom made up his mind to do his best under any circumstances.

“What’s up?” asked Frank, whom Tom passed on his way to see his father.

“My dad’s here,” was the reply. “He came unexpectedly. I don’t know what it means.”

Frank looked grave, for he knew on how slender a thread hung Tom’s chances. A moment later our hero saw his father waving his hand to him from his place beside the president of Randall. Dr. Churchill, and several members of the faculty, had come to the games, though Professor Emerson Tines refused to attend.

“Tom!” cried Mr. Parsons as he came down an aisle to meet his son. “I’m glad to see you, boy. You didn’t expect to find me here; did you?”

“No, dad. Is anything--anything wrong?” Tom could hardly frame the question. But a look at his father’s face told him that he need have nothing to fear--at least for the present.

“It’s all right, Tom!” was the hearty answer. “I have good news for you, and I thought I’d come and tell you myself, instead of wiring. The lawsuit is ended.”

“And you win?”

“I do. The other fellows simply backed down, and decided not to contest the case further. They hadn’t a leg to stand on, and they knew it. I won everything, got back all my money, with interest, and----”

“Then I can stay on at Randall?” interrupted Tom, eagerly.

“You sure can. And look here, Tom. I hear your team lost the first event.”

“Yes, dad. They out-threw us.”

“Have you competed yet?”

“No. I’m in the mile run. It’s next to the last event.”

“Well, look here, Tom, my boy,” and Mr. Parsons leaned forward and whispered. “If you don’t win that I’ll never speak to you again, and I don’t think you’re too big even yet, for me to take over my knee, as I did once in a while, years ago. So you want to win that race!” and he laughed and clapped his son on the back.

“Dad, I’m going to win!” was Tom’s answer, given with shining eyes. “This good news will give me second wind.”

“I rather hoped it would,” said Mr. Parsons. “That’s why I came here on the first train I could get. Go on now, and--win!”

Tom nodded, and started from the grandstand, while his father again took his seat near Dr. Churchill. The throwing of the sixteen pound hammer had already started, with Exter leading off. Her entrants did well, and so did those of Boxer Hall, and then came the turn of Randall.

“Go to it, Joe! Go to it!” yelled Bean Perkins, as one of the Jersey twins stepped into the circle. “Come on now, boys, give ’em the ‘hammer and tongs,’ song.”

It rolled out splendidly as Joe Jackson threw. Perhaps it added to his strength and skill, for certainly his heave was not beaten that day. It stands as a record yet in the Tonoka Lake League--one hundred and twenty-two feet and ten inches--but a short distance less than some of the best amateur records.

“Randall wins!” came the announcement at the close of this contest, and Kindlings remarked:

“One of the five!”

The putting of the sixteen pound shot contest was closer than either of the two previous events. It was a matter of inches to decide the winner, and there was a claim of a foul on the part of Exter against one of the Boxer Hall contestants which caused a delay.

“Say, those fellows seem to do nothing but find fault,” remarked Tom to Phil.

“Yes, they’re afraid they won’t get all that’s coming to ’em, I guess.”

“They will if I have anything to say about it,” commented Tom grimly. “But maybe they won’t like it.”

The dispute was finally settled and the throwing went on. To Dan’s chagrin, and the despair of Holly Cross, Randall lost this event by the narrow margin of one inch. It went to Exter, and there was a riot of cheers from her supporters.

But the pole vault turned the tables, and Phil hurled himself over the bar in magnificent style, clearing ten feet seven inches, and winning the contest. And, as if that was not enough, Ned Warren, another Randall lad, was but an inch below this, he too beating the best performance of either of the other three colleges.

“We win twice in this event,” said Holly, who had tied the best man of Exter in the vault. “If they’d only let us count it twice we’d be all right.”

“But we’re coming on,” declared Kindlings, and, when the hundred yard dash also went to the wearers of the maroon and yellow, Bean Perkins could not contain himself.

“Cut loose, boys! Cut loose!” he ordered, and the “Automobile chorus” was fairly howled by the delighted cheerers.

“Three out of five events we need,” remarked Holly, as he and Dan were busy figuring up the points scored. “We may get the high jump, but if we don’t, and Tom and Sid make good, we’ll win the championship.”

“I hope we win the high,” said Dan. “Berry Foster is in fine trim, and I don’t like cutting it so fine as to leave the last two events to clinch things. No telling what may happen to Sid or Tom, though they’re both feeling fit as fiddles they say. Oh, if we can only get the high!”

“Don’t want everything,” suggested Holly with a laugh. “There they go for it. Come on over and watch.”

Randall’s lads made a gallant attempt to bring home the high jump, but it was not to be, and Boxer Hall carried off the coveted trophy, while her sons sang and cheered themselves hoarse.

There were but two more events on the program--the mile run and the running broad jump. Randall needed both of these to win, for, should Exter annex one, and either of the other colleges the other it would mean that the championship would be lost to the wearers of the maroon and yellow.

“Now Tom, it’s up to you,” said Dan in a low voice as the runners came out on their marks. “Are you all right--feel nervous or anything?”

“No, I’m not nervous. I want to win, Dan, but if I don’t----”

“It won’t be from lack of trying,” was the reply. “Go on Tom, they’re waiting for you.”

But, in spite of the fact that Tom had said he was not nervous there was an unusual thumping of his heart. He tried to calm himself, but, the more he did so, the worse he seemed to get.

“Oh, hang it! This won’t do!” he mused. “If Frank was running this race, he wouldn’t be like this. I must think that I’m doing this for him. Brace up! Even Shambler wouldn’t flunk.”

Tom felt better after that little lecture to himself by himself, and when he glanced across toward the grandstands, and saw a slim girlish figure suddenly spring up, and wave his colors at him, he felt a surge of elation and delight.

“That’s Madge!” whispered Tom to himself. “I’m going to win! I’m going to win! For Randall and--her!”

The runners were in their places. The starter had raised his pistol. Tom, for the first time, noticed that on his left was Langridge--his old enemy. Langridge had seen Miss Tyler’s action, and he smiled mockingly at our hero.

“I’m going to win!” Tom told himself over and over again.

“On your marks!” cried the starter.

“They’re going to run!” said Ruth Clinton to Madge, who sat next to her.

“I know it--I know it!” replied Madge nervously. “Oh, I do hope he wins!”

“Who, Roger Barns?” asked Ruth. “Evidently not though, since you waved the yellow and maroon.”

“Of course not--you know who I mean,” and Madge blushed.

Crack went the starter’s pistol, and the runners were away on their course.

“They’re off!” yelled Bean Perkins. “Now boys, the ‘Conquer or Die,’ song, and sing it as you never sang it before. We want Tom to win, and our other lads to get second and third.”

Our hero, running with all his might, heard the sweet strains wafted to him across the track, and he shut his lips grimly, and looked at Langridge out of the corners of his eyes.

The track was a half mile one, two laps being necessary to make the distance. As it was a big wide one, enabling all the contestants to start at once, there was no necessity for heats in this event. It could thus be decided more quickly.

On and on raced Tom. He felt a responsibility he had never experienced before, and it seemed as if he carried the whole weight of Randall on his shoulders, though Jerry and Joe Jackson were in the event. Tom was running well, and he knew he had a reserve of wind and strength for the final spurt. The last few days of practice had done much for him, and even his unfortunate illness had not pulled him down.

It was evident, soon after the start of the race, that it lay between Tom Parsons, Langridge of Boxer Hall and Sam Wendell of Exter. That was unless some of those who were strung out behind them should develop unexpected speed. And this was not likely.

A mile run is a matter of only seven minutes, or thereabouts, at the worst, for any performance slower than seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds scores nothing under the A. A. U. rules. And so the decision of the contest could not be long in doubt.

At the conclusion of the half mile Tom and Langridge were on even terms. The foremost Exter lad had fallen back a few feet, and Tom’s only fear was lest this contestant might be saving himself for a winning spurt.

“But I can spurt too!” thought our hero. “I’m going to win! I’m going to win!”

On and on they raced. Nearer and nearer to the goal they came. Breaths were coming faster and faster. It became harder and harder to get air into the laboring lungs. The weary muscles needed more and more urging to make them do their work.

“Can I do it? Can I do it?” Tom asked himself.

And the grim answer came.

“I’ve got to! I’ve got to!”

There was a mist before his eyes, and yet through it he seemed to see a fair, girlish figure waving a maroon and yellow flag at him. But the colors were blurred.

A singing came into Tom’s ears. It sounded like the beating of the waves of the sea. His heart was a pump, working at double speed. His legs were like the pistons of some engine, darting back and forth. They did not seem to belong to him, but to be separate from his body.

Once or twice he thought of looking down, to make sure that they were fast to his trunk, but he knew he must keep his eyes ahead of him, and his head well up. Now and then he glanced across to where Langridge was running. The Boxer Hall lad was still in his place, even with Tom. The foremost Exter runner was still lagging behind.

“I’ve got to shake him off--shake Langridge,” thought Tom, and it seemed as if he was someone else saying this.

The finish tape loomed in sight. The eager judges and timekeepers crowded to the course. Now was the time to spurt if ever.

“Come on, Tom! Come on!” yelled scores of encouraging voices, and once more Bean Perkins and his cohorts sang a song of victory.

“Langridge! Langridge!” cried his mates, and the Exter lad’s fellows shouted to him to win.

On and on raced Tom. It seemed as if he could not keep it up. His legs were senseless--his feet like lead--his breath was all but gone.

“But I must do it! I must--for the honor of Randall!” he seemed to shout, yet no sound came from between his lips.

“Now!” yelled Holly Cross, who was watching Tom. “Come!”

It was the signal to spurt, and Tom put out his last ounce of strength in the leap forward. He breasted the tape, and, as he crossed the line he shot a hasty glance to either side.

He was alone! Langridge had faltered at the last. The Exter man was a poor third.

Tom had won the mile run!