CHAPTER XXIII

THE INTERSCHOLASTIC MEET

It had rained in the night, and the young grass was intensely green in the great oval; the quarter mile of cinder track, fresh from the rollers, was smooth, firm, and springy, and the newly turned mold before the vaulting standard gave forth a pleasant odor beneath the rakes. The lime marks and circles shone glaring white in the afternoon sunlight and the bright colors of bonnet and dress and wrap vied in brilliancy with the banners of the contesting schools--with the deep blue of St. Eustace, the brown of Warrenton, the blue and white of Northern Collegiate, the maroon of Maddurn Hall, the green of Shrewsburg, the purple and white of Thracia Polytechnic, and the crimson of Hillton.

The blue and white was most in evidence, for the Northern Collegiate students were on home ground, while the others were visitors from far and near. The collegiate band was discoursing brazen two steps, the circling grand stands were buzzing with talk and laughter, the officials were hurrying, scurrying, hither and thither, and from near by, behind the unlovely high board fences, the electric cars droned and clanged as they drew up to the entrance and discharged their loads. And overhead arched a softly blue May sky just flecked with tiny wads of cottonlike clouds. Northern Collegiate might have drawn a fair augury from that sky.

The clerk of the course was busy placing the runners for the first trial heat of the one-hundred-yard dash. Presently the long line was crouching on the mark, the pistol sounded, and the interscholastic meeting had begun. Other trial heats followed until the contestants for the sprints and the hurdles were sifted down to a few for each event. Meanwhile the broad jumpers were busy at the standard, and in the oval a little group were preparing for the shot putting.

The mile run was down on the card as the last event, and Wayne, who was entered for that only, looked on from the far side of the field, one of a group of many, in front of the dressing room. Paddy, who had in some way smuggled himself inside the ropes, sat beside him.

“We can’t see very much from here,” observed Paddy.

“Why don’t you go across, then?”

“I’m afraid that marshal will ask me embarrassing questions; he’s been glaring at me suspiciously for the last ten minutes. They’re fixing the low hurdles over there; hope Don will win. He looked worried a while ago, I thought.”

“I reckon he’s all right,” answered Wayne. “He was put out about Gaffney.”

“What’s the matter with Gaff?”

“Ankles lame or sore or something. Don was afraid he wouldn’t be able to jump much. But I guess he’s doing well enough.”

“They’re on the mark; three of them! Don and Perkins, and a St. Eustace chap.”

“Varian, I reckon. Don said he’d get second or third at least.”

“There they go!” The report of the pistol floated across the field to where the boys were sitting. “Don’s taken the lead already! Go it, old fellow!”

And Don, though he couldn’t possibly hear Paddy’s command, nevertheless “went it” so well that at the sixth hurdle he was ten yards to the good, with Perkins close behind him. The white forms flashed up and down in the sunlight for a moment longer; then the race was over, and Hillton had begun the day bravely by capturing a first and a second, scoring eight points to St. Eustace’s one.

But Fortune’s face is ever turning, and in the next event, the one-hundred-yard dash, St. Eustace took first place and Hillton failed to score, the rest of the points going to Northern Collegiate’s speedy sprinters. But in the four hundred and forty yards Hillton took both first and second again, increasing her lead by eight more units and leaving her dreaded rival far behind.

And so it went, Dame Fortune smiling and frowning alternately on the wearers of the crimson, until the sun had begun to drop back of the city roofs. Of the track events Hillton had now won three firsts, two seconds, and one third; St. Eustace, two firsts and three thirds; and the two schools had divided five points in the half-mile run, Whitehead having finished side by side with Brown, of St. Eustace, after a spurt down the cinders that brought the grand stand cheering to its feet.

Don had won the high hurdles in magnificent style from a Polytechnic youth by a short yard, a St. Eustace hurdler securing third place. Warrenton and St. Eustace had fought desperately for the tape in the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash, and the latter had gained a close decision, Hillton taking third place. Hillton had done well in the hurdles, fairly so in the middle distances, and poorly in the dashes; St. Eustace had excelled in the dashes and had failed to win better than third place in the hurdles.

The field events had sprung some surprises on the wearers of the crimson. The pole vault had netted them nothing, the deep blue having taken eight points and Northern Collegiate one.

Gaffney’s weak ankle had interfered to some extent with his performance in the broad jump, and his best try, twenty-one feet eight inches and a half, only secured three points for his school, St. Eustace scoring first place. Again, in the high jump, the latter academy had excelled and both first and second places had gone to her clever youngsters.

In the shot putting both St. Eustace and Hillton had failed signally, although the latter had managed to capture third place, Northern Collegiate, in the person of a big, broad-shouldered youth, easily winning the event and breaking the only record of the meeting, with a put of forty-seven feet six inches. And so, with the hammer throw still to be decided, and the mile yet to be run, the scores stood:

St. Eustace, 36½; Hillton, 29½; Northern Collegiate, 11; Scattering, 14.

But the hopes of the Hillton supporters were bright, for St. Eustace had already dropped out of the hammer throw, and only Trowbridge, of Northern Collegiate, and Dave and Hardy had qualified for the finals; Trowbridge with a throw of one hundred and forty-three feet, Dave with one of one hundred and forty-two feet eight inches, and Hardy with one of one hundred and forty feet four inches. And now Trowbridge had the ball and wire for his final tries.

Victory seemed already his, and his freckled face held an expression of radiant confidence. The previous competitors, together with the judges and the scorer and a few privileged college men, watched with interest as he swung the weight around with long arms and sent it flying across the turf. Then the tape was moved over, and in a moment the distance was announced:

“Hundred and forty-six feet three inches.”

Trowbridge shrugged his shoulders as he took the hammer for the next attempt and put more speed into the swing. But he used his feet poorly and the figures dropped back to three inches under one hundred and forty-five feet. A shade of uneasiness darkened the confident face, and Trowbridge set his lips tightly as he raised the weight. Then the long arms whirled, the body spun around, and the hammer whizzed through the air. The tape was laid to the ground.

“Hundred and forty-seven feet nine inches,” said a judge.

Trowbridge stepped from the ring with a scowl, and Dave took his place. As the Hillton lad gripped his hammer his eyes fell on Paddy, who had joined the little throng, his desire to witness Dave’s work having overcome his fear of the marshal. Paddy grinned encouragement, and Dave, with a lurking smile on his serious countenance, responded with a portentous wink. Then the hammer went up, swung around in its widening circle, and flew away.

“Hundred and forty-three feet three inches.”

Once more, and again the tape and the careful measurement.

“Hundred and forty-eight feet five inches.”

A ripple of surprise and applause went through the audience. Trowbridge looked sad. Paddy executed a quiet dance at the edge of the throng. Back came the hammer. Dave gripped it with an air of determination, and placed his feet with greater care than before. Up went the weight, around spun the boy like a dervish, once, twice, thrice; there was a sudden quick stiffening of the muscles, a set to the shoulders, and the twelve pounds of iron sped away at a tangent and ripped the sod at a point farther from the circle than any preceding throw.

“One hundred and forty-nine feet one inch,” announced the judges. Dave had won first place for Hillton.

He stepped out, dragging his beloved hammer after him, with a face that strove hard to hide his happiness. Hardy clapped him on the back as he passed to join Paddy, and the latter beamed upon him like the Cheshire cat. Hardy went in, glad of Dave’s victory over Trowbridge, but hoping for a victory, in turn, over Dave. But that was not to be. His first throw was a sorry attempt; his second scarcely better. But at the third try he put his whole soul into the task and his whole weight behind the flying ball, and when the judges stepped back they announced:

“One hundred and forty-eight feet eleven inches.”

“Eight points to Hillton!” cried some one, and several boys clapped loudly. Then the group broke up, Dave, Hardy, and Paddy mingling with the crowd that flowed across toward the dressing room, joy in their hearts.

“Ready for the mile!” called a voice, and in answer a squad of boys trotted across the field toward the starting point. Wayne and Whitehead were in the van and Paddy waved to them as they passed.

“Go in and win, Old Virginia!” And Wayne nodded smilingly, and hoped that his face wasn’t quite as white as it felt. Professor Beck, Don, and two Hillton coaches were waiting, and Don helped him off with his coat, and trotted along beside him while he limbered up.

“Wayne, this is what you’ve got to do,” he whispered. “Get to the front as soon as you can and look for Sturgis. If he’s ahead, stay with him no matter what pace he sets. If he’s behind, wait for him. Pay no attention to any others. It doesn’t matter who wins as long as St. Eustace doesn’t get a place. Sturgis is their only man that we need fear; so freeze to him, and don’t let him get away from you. Look out for tricks, though, for St. Eustace is going to try them, I’m sure. If she can get first or second men in she’ll have us beaten; if she can win third place she’ll tie us. Win if you can, but, whatever happens, _down Sturgis_!”

“Hurry up, milers!” called the clerk of the course. Don gave Wayne an affectionate clap on the shoulder.

“Go in, old man,” he whispered, “and remember Hillton every minute!”

There were twelve entries for the mile. St. Eustace, beside her crack long-distance runner Sturgis, had entered House and Gould, both men to be feared. Hillton was represented by Wayne and Whitehead, both new men and inexperienced; Hillton’s chances were not considered very good by the other schools. Northern Collegiate and Shrewsburg had each entered two runners, and the other schools were represented by one man apiece. Northern Collegiate was doing a deal of talking about a youth named Pope, of whom little was known to the other schools, and who was spoken of as a “dark horse” that stood a fair chance of winning. Wayne found himself placed between Pope, who turned out to be a heavily-built fellow of apparently nineteen, and a pale and nervous boy much younger in years, whose brown ribbon bore in gold letters the emblem “W. A. A. A.” Gould had the place next to the inner edge of the track, and Sturgis and Whitehead were together near the outer edge.

The spectators had begun to leave the grounds and the stands already presented little barren patches. The shadow of the small building wherein was the dressing room stretched far across the oval, and the sun was fast sinking behind the forest of roofs and chimneys in the west. Contestants in previous events were dressed and stood about the turf to watch the last and deciding struggle for the championship of the year.

Pope was restively digging his toes into the path while the penalties for false starting were being explained with much vehemence by the starter. The Warrenton runner on Wayne’s left was working his arms back and forth as though he was going to win the race on his hands and feared his elbows would get stiff. Wayne himself was undeniably nervous. It was his first appearance in a public contest, barring the cross-country run at Hillton the preceding autumn, and the thought of what failure would mean was beginning to take the starch out of him. But nervousness was the one thing that had been prohibited above all others; and so he tried to forget about the possibilities of failure and had begun to wonder, without much interest in the problem, how many men it required to keep the grass cut on the big oval when the starter’s voice brought his thoughts back at a leap.

“_On your mark!_”

Pope growled something to him about dull spikes and loose tracks, but Wayne made no answer. He was looking straight ahead down the broad path, his thoughts in a tumult.

“_Set!_”

Twelve bodies leaned farther forward and there was a perceptible sound of intaking breath up and down the line. Then, when it seemed to many that another moment of suspense would make them shout or dance or do something else equally ridiculous, _bang!_ went the pistol, and the line leaped forward and broke into fragments as the runners sped away.