CHAPTER XXVI

FOR YARDLEY!

In the west, beyond Meeker’s Marsh, the sun was settling, big and glowing, toward the tops of the distant hills. The surface of the river held hues of copper and purple, and the shadows were lengthening. The pole-vaulters and the jumpers had trailed away, and the standards were being taken down. Somewhere out of sight behind the grand stand, the final field event, the hammer throw, was being decided. In front of the stand, along the edge of the track, competitors and officials whose duties were over, had congregated for the last and deciding race. In the stand every one was on his feet, and cheers for Yardley and for Broadwood were ringing forth.

“Milers, this way!” cried the Clerk.

A little way up the track Andy Ryan was standing with Captain Maury, Goodyear, Norcross, and Gerald about him. The trainer’s face was as expressionless as ever, but there was a hard glint in his little green eyes, and he chewed a grass-blade while he talked.

“It’s pretty close, boys,” he was saying, quietly, “and I guess the meet hinges on you. Now here’s your plan. Let Broadwood go ahead at the start, but keep close up. Let her make the pace for the first lap. She may make it pretty hot, for I guess she’s hoping to wear you out in the first three-quarters and then send Stewart in to win on a sprint. But do you keep close, do you see? Then when the second lap begins, Pennimore, I want you to take the lead and keep it to the end of the third lap――and after that, if you can. You haven’t the speed to win the race, but you’ve got endurance, my boy. Run yourself out in the three laps. After that, if you can get a place, well and good. When the last lap begins, Cap, move up and get where you can pass Stewart over there on the back-stretch. After that it’s a case of hitting it up. Save yourself all you can for the last lap. Norcross, you ought to get a third or fourth if you use your head. Goodyear, you look after Stewart for the three laps; keep him back all you can. Next to Stewart, I guess Webster is their best man. Keep an eye on him, and try to beat him out. Understand, boys?”

They nodded. Only Gerald questioned.

“You mean for me to start in at the second lap, Andy, and run as hard as I can?”

“Run as hard as you can to last the three laps, my boy. They want a fast race, and we’ll give it to them. Keep your heads, all of you, and don’t lose your form. We’ll land the race if you do your best. Go ahead now.”

“Milers, this way! Won’t you hurry, please?” implored the Clerk. “Maury? Next the pole, please. Goodyear? Step in there. Webster? Webster! Is Webster―― Oh, all right. Next to that man. High? Stewart? Dunn? Norcross? Pennimore? Pennimore, you start on the second line. You, too, Norcross. Now, boys, remember there’s to be no jostling. Look out for your arms at the corners. Be sure you’re two strides ahead before crossing in front of a competitor. Careful about your start; you’ll be penalized if you beat the pistol. All right.”

“_Yardley! Yardley! Yardley!_” thundered the stand. The runners threw aside their wraps and limbered up, running a few steps back and forth along the track. Gerald was excited, but not nervous. He looked curiously at Stewart, the Broadwood crack, and compared him with Maury. Stewart was big and rangy and confident looking. Maury, smaller, lither, looked as though his nerves were fairly on edge. His face was pale and he darted anxious glances at his opponents as he came back to his place in the line.

“On your marks!” called the starter in businesslike voice.

The runners toed the scratch and leaned forward as the command to “Get set” reached them. Then came the pistol and the eight boys leaped forward. There was a little scurrying at first for positions, but at the first corner they had settled down into the unhurried pace that makes the first part of a mile race look unimpressive. High, of Broadwood, ran ahead, with Webster stepping in his tracks. Then came Goodyear, Stewart, Dunn, Norcross, Maury and Gerald in order. The stand quieted down, and the band struck up. At the second corner High hit up his pace and down the backstretch he drew the line after him at a good speed. At the third corner Webster ran around and took the lead. At the end of the lap they were running in that order, save that Gerald had passed Maury.

“Stick to them, Yardley!” called the stand as they went by. “Good work, Maury! Go it, Goodyear!”

Then Gerald dug his spikes and slipped into the lead just before the turn, gaining a good four yards on Webster. Dunn challenged and closed in behind Gerald, but Stewart kept his place, running easily.

Gerald’s instructions, to kill himself in three laps and leave the race to Maury and Goodyear, had been somewhat of a surprise to him, and he would have much preferred staying in the contest to the end. But he had no thought of disobeying Andy’s command, and so at the second corner he let out another peg and made a hot pace along the stretch, so hot that the field began to trail out then and there. High fell back to the rear, and between Stewart and Norcross the distance lengthened. Maury was still well back as Gerald took a brief glimpse over his shoulder at the next turn. At the finish of the second lap, with the race half run, Gerald and Dunn were running close together, with Goodyear and Stewart some six yards back and an open space of about thirty feet between them and the next group. High had killed himself in the first lap, and was already out of the running, trailing along far behind.

“That’s a warm pace Gerald is making,” said Dan as the runners swept by. “I guess this lap will settle him.”

“Yes, but look at Bert Maury,” said Durfee. “He looks all-in, or I’ll eat my hat. He’s trying to pass that Broadwood fellow and can’t do it. What sort of a game is this, anyway? Why isn’t he up there in front? He’ll never cut that distance down.”

“Looks as though Goodyear would have to win this if we’re going to get it,” muttered Dan, anxiously. “He’s running a dandy race, isn’t he? See him watch Stewart. Whoa there! He almost got past. I guess Mr. Stewart is getting anxious.”

The Broadwood runner had tried to crowd past Goodyear at the second turn, but that youth had been watching, and as they settled into the stretch, the order remained unchanged. Half way along, Dunn began to drop behind, and at the third corner it was Gerald, Goodyear, and Stewart well bunched, with Norcross and Webster fighting for honors twenty yards back, Dunn steadily losing ground, and Maury, evidently in some distress, a good forty yards behind the leaders. Into the home-stretch they came, Gerald still apparently running strong. Near the finish mark he increased his pace, and left several yards between him and Goodyear. At the same moment Stewart found his chance, and crossed into second place. The gong clanged, announcing the beginning of the last lap, and the shouting from the stand and from the audience along the edge of the field, was deafening.

“Good work, Pennimore! Keep it up!”

“Go it, Stewart! Go it, Broadwood!”

“Maury! Maury! Come on, Maury! Close up there, Maury!”

“Eat ’em up, Goodyear! Come on, Norcross!”

“Yardley! Yardley! Yardley!”

“Broadwood! Broadwood! Broadwood!”

And through it all the band played doggedly on.

Goodyear had sprung after Stewart, and was hanging to him closely at the first turn. Between Gerald and Stewart lay some four or five yards of cinders. Gerald had been told to keep the lead as long as he could, and he was doing it. As a matter of fact, he still felt strong and was breathing better than during the first or second laps. He looked around on the next turn, and a puzzled frown came into his forehead. Why was Maury away back there? He could never win in the wide world unless he performed a miracle of sprinting! Well, orders were orders. He would keep the lead while he could, and then the others must do their best. He was still running strong and prettily at the beginning of the backstretch, still holding his four-yard lead against Stewart. Webster had headed Norcross, while far behind came Maury, fast losing form and evidently holding on by sheer pluck. Maury was run out!

That was a pretty race, that final lap. Half-way down the stretch Goodyear slipped past Stewart and the Yardley shouts arose wild, incoherent, and triumphant. Webster was making the prettiest sort of a sprint, leaving Norcross at every stride and closing up the distance between him and Stewart, now third in the race. But Stewart was not dead yet; far from it. He was hot after Goodyear and Gerald, and at the turn the three were almost touching elbows. Gerald heard Goodyear’s panting breath beside him, and before he knew what was happening, his teammate had crossed in front of him, and on his heels came Stewart. Around the curve they went, all nearly spent now, but running doggedly; and twenty yards back came Webster. Scattered far back were Norcross, Maury, and Dunn. High had given up at the end of the third lap, and subsided on the turf.

It was at the last corner that the idea of winning suddenly came to Gerald. So far he had thought of himself only as pacemaker. Now he wondered why he hadn’t as good a right to the race as Goodyear, if he could take it! Sprinting wasn’t Gerald’s strong suit, but endurance was, and he believed that he could pass Goodyear if he tried. As they straightened out into the homestretch, Stewart, making a gallant effort, drew even with Gerald. But it was for an instant only, a matter of two strides. For then, calling on all that was left in him, Gerald drew ahead, left the pole, and ran even with Goodyear. Goodyear shot a startled glance at him and threw back his head. Down the stretch they came, the finish drawing closer at every stride, and the air filled with the wild cheers of Yardley. For Stewart had shot his bolt and was dropping back, and whether Goodyear or Gerald finished first, Yardley was certain of eight points, the meet and the Dual Cup!

Twenty yards from the line Gerald knew that the race was his. He was already a stride ahead. Goodyear’s agonized sobs were already acknowledging defeat. Gerald’s heart swelled with triumph, but in the next instant, the thought came to him that this was Goodyear’s last race at Yardley, that for four years he had been striving for the triumph, which Gerald was about to snatch from his grasp!

And then the watchers saw a strange thing happen. Gerald deliberately turned his head, saw that Stewart was no longer dangerous, and faltered in his pace for an instant. Goodyear forged ahead with a final effort, staggered across the line, and reeled into outstretched arms. Gerald, a yard behind, finished erect, and smiling, thrust aside the eager hands that would have supported him and picked up his wrap.

But he wasn’t to escape so easily. The band was already forming in the oval. The laggards were finishing to the imperious cries of “_Track! Track there!_” Yardley pæans filled the air. Unheard, the announcer was informing the jostling throng that Yardley had won, 67 points to 65. And then Gerald, striving to escape to the gymnasium, but hemmed in by the crowd, was lifted high in air and, with Goodyear, still white and weak, swaying dizzily beside him, was borne at the head of the procession off the field and up the path. Ahead went the band playing “Old Yardley.” Once Gerald and Goodyear were able to shake hands, but the rest of the time they had all they could do to keep their seats on the shoulders of their excited bearers. As they neared the gymnasium, Dan, breaking through the crowd, got within speaking distance of Gerald.

“Bully for you, chum!” he cried. “Have you heard your time?” Gerald smiled and shook his head.

“Five minutes, one and three-fifths! A fifth behind Goodyear! It’s the Dual record by over two minutes!”

At the gymnasium steps the runners were released and hurried for the door. Goodyear got through, but a hand stopped Gerald on the threshold. He looked up to find Mr. Collins beside him.

“Congratulations, Pennimore,” he said. “Here’s something for you. You’ve earned a new one to-day, but you may like to have this, too.”

Mr. Collins thrust something into his hand. Then the big oak door closed behind him. Outside, Chambers was leading the cheering. Gerald paused in the dim light of the hall, and opened his palm. In it lay crumpled a little white flannel Y.

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes:

――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).

――Except for the frontispiece, illustrations have been moved to follow the text that they illustrate.

――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.

――The Author’s em-dash style has been retained.