CHAPTER XXV

THE DUAL MEET

_Bling! Blang! Blare! Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-ra!_

That was the Wissining Silver Cornet Band playing its famous College Medley.

“On your mark!... Get set!...”

That was the starter at the head of the straightaway over by the tennis courts.

_Bang!_

That was the little nickel-plated revolver held, glistening in the sunlight, over the starter’s head.

“Come on, you Rand! Come on! Come on!”

“Go it, Broadwood! Beat him out, Cheever!”

“A-a-a-ay!”

That was――well, that was about everybody; everybody seated on the grand stand and everybody gathered along the track. The Dual Track and Field Meeting between Yardley Hall School and Broadwood Academy had begun, and they were hustling off the trial heats in the hundred-yards dash. It was a gala day at Yardley, and the Weather Man had provided ideal conditions. Overhead a warm blue sky, underfoot a firm and springy track, and between scarcely enough breeze to ruffle the big blue banner hanging from the pole at the end of the field. It was warm――too warm, perhaps, for the comfort of those in the grand stand, but just right for the contestants on track and turf. From the grand stand the spectators, shielding themselves from the ardent rays of the sun behind parasols and programmes, looked down upon a smooth green oval of turf bordered by the blue-gray ribbon of newly rolled cinders. Beyond was the little shingled, vine-screened boat-house, and the river, glinting with pale golden lights, and then the vividly green expanse of Meeker’s Marsh. To the left, down the straightaway, gleamed a white tent about which the Broadwood athletes congregated. River and links, courts and diamonds, were deserted to-day, for all Yardley was at the field. Important looking youths and busy-looking men, wearing the blue ribbon badges which proclaimed them officials of the meeting, hurried or strolled about and on the bench below the stand, a handful of Yardley contestants sweltered under their dressing-gowns and awaited their events. Another heat in the hundred yards was run off, and then the pole-vaulters and shot-putters were called out, and the bench emptied itself and from the Broadwood dressing tent hurried the Green’s entrants.

Down near the scene of the field events a number of Yardley and Broadwood athletes whose services would not be required until later in the afternoon, had congregated to watch their teammates. In a Yardley group was Gerald――Gerald very brown of face and attired in a blue and white wrap. Beside him stood Alf, with a Field Judge’s badge hanging from his coat lapel.

“Poor old Thompson can’t even see this,” Alf was saying. “I suppose he’s mooning around in his room. It’s a shame.”

“Yes, it is a shame,” Gerald agreed, “but he isn’t doing any mooning. He borrowed a pair of field glasses from some fellow and he and young Merrow are up there on the hill somewhere.”

“Good for him,” laughed Alf. “Say, those Broadwood vaulters look pretty good, don’t they? There goes Cowles. Oh, hard luck, Cowles! They’re starting the high jump. I guess I’d better go over and earn my pay. How are you feeling, Gerald? Going to win that mile?”

“Easy,” laughed Gerald. “I’m feeling fine.”

“That’s more than Bert Maury is, I guess. He looks like a drink of water. Well, so long, Gerald.”

At the other end of the field the starter’s pistol barked, and Gerald turned to see four white-clad youths rising and falling as they came down the track in the first trial heat of the high hurdles. Stevenson, Yardley’s mainstay in that event, had no trouble in getting placed, a ripple of applause floated across from the grand stand, and the band struck up a nimble two-step. Gerald skirted the jumpers and went over to where four Yardley and five Broadwood fellows were putting the shot. Tom hadn’t removed his blue sweater yet, and as Gerald approached, he hopped across the ring and sent the shot arching away for a good thirty-six feet.

“Say, Dyer, if you’re going to do that with your sweater on,” laughed a Broadwood opponent, “what are you going to do when you take it off?”

Tom grinned and turned to Gerald. “What’s this I hear about Bert Maury not running?” he asked _sotto voce_.

“I hadn’t heard anything about it,” replied Gerald. “Why isn’t he going to?”

Tom shrugged his broad shoulders. “Search me. That’s what Stevenson said. I don’t know where he heard it. If Maury doesn’t run, this is going to be a mighty close thing to-day.”

“He seemed to be all right at dinner,” said Gerald. “They’ll get the mile for sure if he doesn’t start.”

“The meet, too, I guess,” muttered Tom as he picked up his shot again and stepped into the ring.

The trials in the high hurdles were over, and the Clerk of the Course was calling the quarter-milers out. Gerald followed the crowd down to where the race was to finish. As he reached a place near the tape the pistol spoke from across the field, and seven runners dashed down the straightaway. Of the seven, three wore Yardley colors, and four Broadwood. At the first corner they were well strung out, with the Yardley crack in the lead, and two Broadwood men close behind. At the next corner the foremost runner had increased his lead slightly, and the distance between second man and third had lengthened. Cheers for Yardley and Broadwood arose from the grand stand, and down here at the finish, eager partisans leaned over the edge of the cinders, and hoarsely shouted encouragement. The foremost Broadwood man made desperate efforts to gain the lead in the last fifty yards, but was forced to accept second place, while behind him came two of his teammates. Yardley cheered her victor, but the fact remained that in the first event to be decided, Broadwood had captured three places and six of the eleven points.

After that, with the band blaring almost incessantly, and hundreds of voices cheering and imploring, events went with a rush. The hundred-yards dash brought the grand stand to its feet as the four boys who had won their way to the final heat, sprinted down the lanes. It was an easy victory for Rand in 10⅖ seconds, with Bufford second, Chase third, and the single Broadwood runner, fourth. But in the high hurdles, Broadwood redeemed herself, winning 8 points to Yardley’s 3. In the 220-yards dash, Rand again took a first, and Bufford managed to scrape by in third place. Rand equalled the Dual record, 24⅗, and got plenty of applause for it. The trials for the 220-yards hurdles were begun, and from the announcer came the results of the high jump and the shot-put. In the former Yardley had surprised her adherents by gaining 6 points to her rival’s 5, while in the shot event she had disappointed them by reversing the score. Tom had had no difficulty in getting first with a put of 40 feet 11½ inches, but the other Yardley contestants had failed signally and Broadwood had taken the remaining six points.

“The score at present,” announced the stentorian-voiced gentleman with the megaphone, “is Yardley 33 points, Broadwood 33 points!”

“Gee,” exclaimed Dan to Durfee, “that’s some close!”

“Yes, and the remaining events are the ones we’re supposed to have mighty little show in,” answered the baseball captain anxiously. “This isn’t going to be any cinch like last year, is it?”

“Looks to me like a good drubbing,” answered Dan. “What’s next?”

“It ought to be the half-mile,” replied Durfee, consulting his programme. “Yes, here they come now. We’re supposed to get about three points in this, I believe.”

“Phew! And Broadwood has the low hurdles cinched too!”

“How has she?” Durfee protested. “We’ve each qualified two men.”

“That’s so. If Stevenson can get first――――”

“Here they go for the eight-eighty,” interrupted the other. “Say, there’s a bunch of them, eh? Who’s the tall guy from Broadwood?”

“I don’t know. Fleming, probably; he’s their crack.”

They watched anxiously while the fourteen youths sped away from their marks and jostled into their places at the turn. All the way to the beginning of the home-stretch, the runners remained well grouped. Then the tall Fleming settled down to business, and as he crossed the line for the start of the last lap, sprang into the lead and swept around the corner yards ahead. It was a grand race after that, with Fleming and two teammates running close together, and three Yardley men grouped some ten yards behind. After them the field strung away for two hundred yards.

“Gee, that looks like fast running,” muttered Dan.

“You’d better believe it!” agreed Durfee, excitedly. “Come on, Yardley! Close up on ’em!”

Of course the Yardley runners never heard Durfee’s request, but two of them at that moment began to sprint. One Broadwood man fell back, and for the last two hundred yards the four leaders fought desperately. Fleming was never headed, but Warren, of Yardley, nosed out the next Broadwood fellow for second place, and a third wearer of the blue added another point by finishing a bad fourth. The time was 2:5⅗, and it broke the Dual record, and Broadwood lifted her fleet-footed Fleming on high, and bore him off to the tent in triumph.

“Result of the Running Broad Jump,” bawled the announcer. “Won by Hughes, Broadwood; distance, 19 feet, 10½ inches. Second: Roeder, Yardley; 19 feet, 7 inches. Third: Whittier, Yardley; 18 feet, 11 inches. Fourth: Hagan, Yardley; 18 feet, 4 inches.”

Yardley cheered vociferously.

“Result of the Pole Vault,” went on the announcer. “Won by Perkins, Broadwood――――”

There was a groan from the grand stand.

“――――Height, 11 feet. Second: Myers, Yardley; 10 feet, 11 inches. Third: Sawyer, Broadwood; 10 feet, 6 inches. Fourth: Beaton, Broadwood; 10 feet, 1 inch.”

That was disappointing, but there was no time to discuss it, for, far up the track the hurdlers were crouching on their mark. A tiny puff of smoke, followed by the sharp _bang_ of the pistol, and the four figures were racing down. A groan went up from the Yardley sympathizers as Stevenson, leading at the second hurdle, stumbled. But he recovered nicely, scraped over the next barrier and almost regained his loss. Almost, but not quite, for at the tape the Broadwood crack beat him out by a scant foot. Yardley captured third place, and fourth went to her rival. Again the Green had nosed out a win.

“Say,” complained little Durfee, chewing hard at the end of his lead pencil, “this is too blamed close for fun. Let’s figure up the standing, Dan.”

But the announcer saved them the trouble.

“The score now stands,” he trumpeted: “Broadwood, 60 points, Yardley, 50 points.”

“We’re dished!” sighed Dan.

“No, we’re not; not yet. We’ll get 8 in the hammer, likely, and more than half the points in the mile run. That will make it――let me see――64 for us and――gosh!”

“Yes, 68 for Broadwood,” supplied Dan, dryly. “What we’ve got to do is to get sixteen points somewhere. And I guess we can’t do it.”

“I’m afraid not,” Durfee agreed, soberly, studying his figures. “I wonder if the hammer throw is over. Oh, Mr. Payson!”

The baseball coach, one of the Time-Keepers, hurrying by, heard the hail and waved his hand to the two boys in the stand.

“Have you heard from the hammer throw yet, sir?” called Durfee. Mr. Payson stopped, made a trumpet of his hands, and answered:

“It isn’t over yet, but we get 9 points sure!”

“Hooray!” cried Dan, while others who had heard sent up a shout of approval.

“That gives us 59,” said Durfee, excitedly; “59 to their 60! It all depends on the mile, Dan. If we can get first and third places――――”

“If we can get first and second, you mean. What’s the good of a tie score? Maury can get first, I suppose, but have we any one who can pinch second? Can Goodyear do it?”

“He’s got to! My word, we can’t lose the meet now! Where’s Andy, I wonder. Some one ought to tell him――――”

“All out for the mile!” called the Clerk of the Course.