Chapter 6

THE PENALTY FOR A FOUL

How it was managed Irving did not know, but on the morning of the day when the fall handicap track games were held Scarborough lingered after the Sixth Form Geometry class. Scarborough was president of the Athletic Association.

"We want somebody to act as starter for the races this afternoon, Mr. Upton," said Scarborough. "I wondered if you would help us out."

"I should be delighted," said Irving. "I've not had much experience--"

"Oh, it's easy enough; Mr. Barclay, I guess, can tell you all that has to be done. Thank you very much."

It was quite as if Irving was the one who was conferring the favor; he liked Scarborough for the way in which the boy had made the suggestion. He always had liked him, for Scarborough had never given any trouble; he seemed more mature than most of the boys, more mature even than Louis Collingwood. He was not so popular, because he maintained a certain dignity and reserve; even Westby seemed to stand somewhat in awe of Scarborough. He was, as Irving understood, the best oarsman in the school, captain of the school crew, besides being the crack shot-putter and hammer-thrower; if he and Collingwood had together chosen to throw their influence against a new master, life would indeed have been hard. But Scarborough's attitude had been one of entire indifference; he would stand by and smile sometimes when Westby was engaged in chaffing Irving, and then, as if tired of it, he would turn his back and walk away.

Irving visited Barclay at his house during the noon recess, borrowed his revolver, and received the last simple instructions.

"Make sure always that they're all properly 'set' before you fire. If there's any fouling at the start, you can call them back and penalize the fellow that fouled--a yard to five yards, according to your discretion. But there's not likely to be any fouling; in most of the events the fellows are pretty well separated by their handicaps."

"I'll be careful," said Irving. He inspected the revolver. "It's all loaded?"

"Yes--and there are some blank cartridges. Now, you're all equipped. If any questions come up--I'll be down at the field; I'm to be one of the judges and you can call on me."

At luncheon Irving entered into the talk about the sports to come, without giving any intimation as to the part which he was to play.

"They've given Heath only thirty yards over Lou Collingwood," complained Westby.

"I thought Lou wasn't going to run, because of football; he hasn't been practising," said Carroll.

"I know, but the Pythians have got hold of him, and Dennison's persuaded him it's his duty to run. And I guess he's good enough without practice to win from scratch--giving that handicap!"

"Is Dennison the captain of the Pythian track team?" asked Irving.

"Yes."

"And who's captain of yours--the Corinthians?"

"Ned Morrill."

"Morrill's going awfully fast in the quarter now," said Blake. "I timed him yesterday."

"They've handicapped him pretty hard. And he's apt to be just a shade late in starting--just as Dave Pratt is apt to be just a shade previous," said Westby. "It ought to be a close race between those two."

"How much does Pratt get over Morrill?"

"Five yards. And if he steals another yard on the start--"

"Dave wouldn't steal it," exclaimed Blake indignantly. "You Corinthians would accuse a man of anything!"

"Oh, I don't mean that he'd do it intentionally," replied Westby. "But he's so overanxious and eager always--and he's apt to get away without realizing--without the starter realizing.--I wonder who's going to be starter, by the way?"

Nobody knew; Irving did not enlighten them.

Westby bethought him to ask the same question of Scarborough half an hour later, when they were dressing in the athletic house.

"Mr. Upton has consented to serve," said Scarborough gravely.

Westby thumped himself down on a bench, dangling one spiked running shoe by the string.

"What! Kiddy!"

"The same," said Scarborough.

Westby said nothing more; he stooped and put on his shoe, and then he rose and came over to Scarborough, who was untangling a knot. He passed his hand over Scarborough's head and remarked wonderingly, "Feels perfectly normal--strange--strange!"

Morrill came in from outside, clapping his hands. "Corinthians out for the mile--Heath--Price--Bolton--Edwards--all ready?"

The four named answered by clumping on their spikes to the door.

A moment later came the Pythian call from Dennison; Collingwood and Morse responded. The first event of the day was about to begin. Westby leisurely brushed his hair, which had been disarranged in the process of undressing; he was like a cat in respect of his hair and could not endure to have it rumpled. When it was parted and plastered down to his satisfaction, he slipped a dressing gown on over his running clothes and went out of doors.

The fall track meet was not of the same importance as that in the spring, which was a scratch event. But there were cups for prizes, and there was always much rivalry between the two athletic clubs, the Corinthians and Pythians, as to which could show the most winners. So for that day the football players rested from their practice; many of them in fact were entered in the sports--though, like Collingwood, without any special preparation. The school turned out to look on and cheer; when Westby left the athletic house, he saw the boys lined up on the farther side of the track. The field was reserved for contestants and officials; already many figures in trailing dressing gowns were wandering over it, and off at one side three or four were having a preliminary practice in putting the shot.

But most of those who were privileged to be on the field stood at the farther side, where the start for the mile run was about to take place. Westby saw Randolph and Irving kneeling by the track, measuring off the handicap distances with a tape line; Barclay walked along it, and summoned the different contestants to their places. By the time that Westby had crossed the field, the six runners were at their stations; there was an interval of a hundred and forty yards between Collingwood, at scratch, and young Price of the Fourth Form.

Westby came up and stood near Irving, and fixed him with a whimsical smile.

"Quite a new departure for you, isn't it, Mr. Upton?" he said.

"I thought I'd come down and see if you can run as fast as you can talk, Westby." Irving drew out the revolver, somewhat ostentatiously.

"I hope you won't shoot any one with that; it looks to me as if you ought to be careful how you handle it, sir."

"Thank you for the advice, Westby." Irving turned from the humorist, and raised his voice. "All ready for the mile now! On your marks! Set!"

He held the pistol aloft and fired, and the six runners trotted away. There is nothing very exciting about the start of a mile run, and Irving felt that the intensity with which he had given the commands had been rather absurd. It was annoying to think that Westby had been standing by and finding perhaps in his nervousness a delectable subject for mockery and derision.

Irving walked down the track towards the finish line. He found Barclay there holding the watch.

"You seem to be discharging your arduous duties successfully," said Barclay.

"Oh, so far." Irving looked up the track; the foremost runners were rounding the curve at the end of their first lap. He had a moment's longing to be one of them, stretching his legs like them, trying out his strength and speed on the smooth cinder track against others as eager as himself. He had never done anything of that kind; hardly until now had he ever felt the desire. Why it should come upon him now so poignantly he did not know; but on this warm October afternoon, when the air and the sunshine were as soft as in early September, he wished that he might be a boy again and do the things which as a boy he had never done. To be still young and looking on at the sports and the strife of youth, sports and strife in which he had never borne a part--there was something humiliating and ignoble in the thought. If he could only be for the moment the little Fourth Former there, Price--now flying on in the lead yet casting many fearful backward glances!--Poor child, even Irving's inexperienced eyes told him that he could never keep that pace.

"Go it, kid!" cried three or four older boys good-naturedly, as Price panted by; and he threw back his head and came down more springily upon his toes, trying in response to the cheer to display his best form.

After him came Bolton and Edwards, side by side; and Collingwood, who started at scratch, had moved up a little on Morse and Heath. Heath was considered the strongest runner in the event for the Corinthians, and they urged him on with cries of "Heath! Heath!" as he made the turn. "You've got 'em, Lou!" shouted a group of Pythians the next moment as Collingwood passed. It was early in the race for any great demonstration of excitement.

It was Price whom Irving watched with most sympathy. When he got round on the farther side of the field, his pace had slackened perceptibly; Bolton and Edwards passed him and kept on widening the distance; Morse and Heath passed him at the next turn; and when he came down to the turn in front of the crowd, running heavily, Collingwood overhauled and passed him. It was rather an unfeeling thing for Collingwood to do, right there in front of the crowd, but he was driven to it by force of circumstances; the four other runners were holding on in a way he did not like. The cries of encouragement to him and to Heath were more urgent this time; Bolton and Edwards and Morse had their supporters too.

Westby ran along the field beside Price, and Irving felt a moment's indignation; was Westby taunting the plucky and exhausted small boy? And then Irving saw that he was not, and at the same instant Barclay turned to him and said,--

"Price is Westby's young cousin."

Irving stood near enough to hear Westby say, "Good work, Tom; you set the pace just right; it'll kill Collingwood. Now drop out."

Price shook his head and kept on; Westby trotted beside him, saying anxiously, "There's no use in your wearing yourself all out." But Price continued at his determined, pounding trot.

"He's a plucky kid," said Barclay.

"Rather nice of Westby to take such an interest," said Irving.

Barclay nodded. From that point on it became a close and interesting race, yet every now and then Irving's eyes strayed to the small figure toiling farther and farther to the rear--but always toiling. Westby stood on the edge of the green oval, not far away, and when on the third lap Heath came by in the lead, ran with him a few moments and shouted advice and encouragement in his ear; he had to shout, for all the Corinthians were shouting for Heath now, and the Pythians were shouting just as loudly for Collingwood, who, pocketed by the two other Corinthians, Bolton and Edwards, was running fifteen yards behind. Morse, the only Pythian to support Collingwood, was hopelessly out of it.

Westby left Heath and turned his eyes backward. His cousin came to the turn, white-faced, and mouth hanging open; the crowd clapped the boy. "Quit it, Tom!" cried Westby. "Quit it; there's no sense--" but Price went pounding on. Westby stood looking after him with a worried frown, and then because there was a sudden shout, he turned to look at the others.

There, on the farther side of the field, Collingwood had at last extricated himself from the pocket; he was running abreast of Bolton; Edwards had fallen behind. Heath was spurting; Collingwood passed Bolton, but in doing so did not lessen Heath's lead--a lead of fully fifteen yards. So they came to the last turn, to the long straight-away home-stretch; and the crowd clustered by the finish broke and ran up alongside the track to meet them. Every one was yelling wildly--one name or another--"Corinthian!" "Pythian!" "Heath!" "Collingwood!"

Barclay ran across the track with one end of the tape,--the finish line; Mr. Randolph held the other. "Collingwood! Collingwood!" rose the shout; Irving, standing on tiptoe, saw that Collingwood was gaining, saw that at last he and Heath were running side by side; they held together while the crowd ran with them shouting. Irving pressed closer to the track; Westby in his dressing gown was jumping up and down beside him, waving his arms; Irving had to crane his neck and peer, in order to see beyond those loose flapping sleeves. He saw the light-haired Collingwood and the black-haired Heath, coming down with their heads back and their teeth bared and clenched; they were only fifteen yards away. And then Collingwood leaped ahead; it was as if he had unloosed some latent and unconquerable spring, which hurled him in a final burst of speed across the tape and into half a dozen welcoming arms. Heath stumbled after him, even more in need of such friendly services; but both of them revived very quickly when Mr. Barclay, rushing into the crowd with the watch, cried, "Within eight seconds of the record! Both of you fellows will break it next June."

The other runners came gasping in--and Price was still toiling away in the rear. He had been half a lap behind; he came now into the home-stretch; the crowd began to laugh, and then more kindly, as he drew nearer, to applaud. They clapped and called, "Good work, Price!" Westby met him about fifty yards from the finish and ran with him, saying, "You've got to stick it out now, Tom; you can't drop out now; you're all right, old boy--lots of steam in your boiler--you'll break a record yet." Irving caught some of the speeches. And so Westby was there when Price crossed the line and collapsed in a heap on the track.

It was not for long; they brought him to with water, and Westby knelt by him fanning his face with the skirt of his dressing gown. Barclay picked the boy up. "Oh, I'm all right, sir," said Price, and he insisted on being allowed to walk to the athletic house alone,--which he did rather shakily.

Westby flirted the cinders from the skirt of his dressing gown. "Blamed little fool," he remarked to Carroll and to Allison, who stood by. "Wouldn't his mother give me the dickens, though, for letting him do that!" But Irving, who heard, knew there was a ring of pride in Westby's voice--as if Westby felt that his cousin was a credit to the family. And Irving thought he was.

The sports went on; not many of the runs were as exciting as that with which the afternoon had opened. Irving passed back and forth across the field, helped measure distances for the handicaps, and tried to be useful. His interest had certainly been awakened. Twice in college he had sat on the "bleachers" and viewed indifferently the track contests between Yale and Harvard; he had had a patriotic desire to see his own college win, but he had been indifferent to the performance of the individuals. They had not been individuals to him--merely strange figures performing in an arena. But here, where he knew the boys and walked about among them, and saw the different manifestations of nervousness and excitement, and watched the muscles in their slim legs and arms, he became himself eager and sympathetic. He stood by when Scarborough went on putting the shot after beating all the other competitors--went on putting it in an attempt to break the School record. Unconsciously Irving pressed forward to see him as he prepared for the third and last try; unconsciously he stood with lips parted and eyes shining, fascinated by the huge muscles that rose in Scarborough's brown arm as he poised the weight at his shoulder and heaved it tentatively. And when it was announced that the effort had fallen short by only a few inches, Irving's sigh of disappointment went up with that of the boys.

At intervals the races were run off--the two-twenty, the quarter-mile, the half-mile, the high hurdles, the low hurdles. Irving started them all without any mishap. The last one, the low hurdles for two hundred and twenty yards, was exciting; the runners were all well matched and the handicaps were small. And so, after firing the revolver, Irving started and ran across the field as hard as he could, to be at the finish; he arrived in time, and stood, still holding the revolver in his hand, while Morrill and Flack and Mason raced side by side to the tape. They finished in that order, not more than a yard apart; and Irving rammed his revolver into his pocket and clapped his hands and cheered with the Corinthians.

The Pythians were now two points ahead, and there remained only one event, the hundred yards. First place counted five points and second place two; in these games third place did not count. So if a Corinthian should win the hundred yards, the Corinthians would be victorious in the meet by one point.

There were eight entries in the hundred yards--a large number to run without interfering with one another. But the track was wide, and two of the boys had handicaps of ten yards, one had five yards, and one had three. So they were spread out pretty well at the start, and consequently the danger of interference was minimized.

The runners threw off their dressing gowns and took their places. Drake, Flack, Westby, and Mason lined up at scratch,--Westby having drawn the inside place and being flanked by the two Pythians. There was a moment's pawing of the cinders, and settling down firmly on the spikes.

"Ready, everybody!" cried Irving. He drew the revolver from his pocket and held it aloft. He was as excited as any of the runners; there was the nervous thrill in his voice. "On your marks!" They put their hands to the ground; he ran his eyes along them to see that all were placed. "Set!" There was the instant stiffening of muscles. Then from the revolver came a click. Irving had emptied the six chambers in starting the other races, and had forgotten to reload.

"Just a moment, fellows; ease off!" he called, and they all straightened up and faced towards him questioningly. "Just till I slip in a cartridge," Irving explained with embarrassment.

Westby turned on him a delighted grin, and said,--

"Can I be of any assistance, Mr. Upton?"

"No, thank you," said Irving, and having slipped in one cartridge, he began filling the other chambers of the revolver.

"It takes only one shot to start," observed Westby.

"Yes," said Irving. "If I fire a second, it will be to call you back because of a false start.--Now then,--all ready once more. On your marks!" They crouched. "Set!" He fired.

Somehow in the start Westby's foot slipped, and in trying to get clear he lunged against Flack. Irving saw it and instantly fired a second shot, and shouted, "Come back, come back!" The runners heeded the signal and the shout, but as they tiptoed up the track, they looked irritated.

"Westby, you fouled Flack." Irving spoke with some asperity. "I shall have to set you back a yard."

"It was an accident," Westby replied warmly. "My foot slipped. I couldn't help myself."

"But it was a foul," declared Irving, "and I shall have to set you back a yard."

"It was an accident, I tell you," repeated Westby.

"If it was an accident, you oughtn't to set him back," said Drake, his fellow Corinthian.

"It's in the starter's discretion," spoke up Mason, the Pythian.

"The penalty's a yard," affirmed Irving.

Westby shut his lips tight and looked angrily contemptuous. Irving measured the distance. "There," he said, "you will start there."

Westby took the place behind the others without a word.

"Ready now! On your marks!"

The pistol cracked, and this time they all got away safely, and Irving raced after them over the grass.

From the crowd at the finish came the instant shout of names; out of the short choppy cries two names especially emerged, "Flack! Flack! Flack!" "Westby! Westby! Westby!" Those two were the favorites for the event. Irving saw the scratch men forge ahead, and mingle with the handicap runners; in the confusion of flying white figures he could not see who were leading. But the tumult near the finish grew wild; arms and caps were swung aloft, boys were leaping up and down; the red-haired Dennison ran along the edge of the track, waving his arms; Morrill on the other side did the same thing; the next moment the race had ended in a tumultuous rush of shouting boys.

As to who had won, Irving had not the slightest idea. He was hastening up to find out--hoping that it had been Westby. And then out from the crowd burst Westby and rushed towards him, panting, flushed, hot-eyed, attended by Morrill and half a dozen other Corinthians.

"I hope you're satisfied with your spite-work," said Westby. His voice shook with passion, his eyes blazed; never before had Irving seen him when he had so lost control of himself. "You lost me that race--by half a yard! I hope you're pleased with yourself!"

He surveyed Irving scornfully, breathing hard, then turned his back and strode off to the athletic house.