Part 12

When the last lap began only five men were left in the running――Green, Bannet, Fuller of Chamberlain, Carl and Beckner.

That was a pretty race; but it did not come out right for us. When the home stretch began, Fuller passed Bannet and Beckner got away from Carl. Then it was Fuller, Bannet and Beckner all the way to within twenty feet of the tape, with a couple of thousand spectators yelling like mad, and crimson and blue and orange flags waving.

Carl was trying hard to come forward, but he had waited too long and was out of it; just as much out of it as Bobby, who was jogging doggedly along half a lap behind. Twenty feet from the finish Fuller spurted again and left two yards between him and the two others, who were fighting hard for second place.

“Come on, Dick!” we shrieked. “Come on! Come on!”

But Bannet could not do any more, and Beckner drew slowly away from him in the last half dozen strides. Bannet was used up when we caught him. And Fuller, too, was pretty tired. Only Beckner seemed fresh, and we knew then that he could have had first place if he had wanted it, and that he was saving himself for the two miles.

Things did not look so bright for us after that race. And after the next one, the finals in the one-hundred-and-twenty-yard hurdles, they looked worse; for all I could do was to get second by a hair’s breadth; Maynard took first by several yards and Chamberlain third.

I was pretty well cut up over that, but there was still the two-hundred-and-twenty, and I vowed that I would do better in that. There was need of improvement, for we had thirteen points to Maynard’s fourteen, with Chamberlain not far behind with nine. Things were not happening at all as we had figured them.

We had counted on eight points in the quarter-mile race, but all we got was three, for almost at the start Carstein of Chamberlain left everyone behind and won by fully thirty yards! That was the trouble with Chamberlain; you never could tell what mischief it would cause.

They called us out for the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard hurdle race. The Maynard man and I were nip and tuck at the second hurdle. I was a little quicker on the cinders than he, but he hurdled a good three inches lower than I, and that made things even. But at the fourth hurdle he got down too low and went over the bar. That put him out of pace a little, and I ran for all I was worth. I tipped the next hurdle myself, but not enough to throw me out.

At the seventh, I think it was, I was running even with the chap at the far side of the track and the Maynard fellow was behind. After that I put every ounce into beating the unknown――for there was no time to see who he was――and we had a battle royal. We came over the last hurdle right together, and only my speed on the ground beat him, and then by very little. Maynard finished a close third. And when I turned round and looked at the chap I’d beaten, I found it was one of our own men. Bert Poole, who had never won a place before in his life!

We felt better after that, for those eight points put us ahead; but when presently Maynard won six points in the furlong dash and Chamberlain got the remaining three, we began to worry again. The results from the field events then began to come in, and added to our anxiety. Chamberlain had taken first in the high jump, as we expected, but Maynard had left us only third place. In the broad jump Maynard had won first place and third, and given us second. In the pole vault that troublesome Chamberlain had again taken first; Maynard had taken second and Preston third. In the shot put we had first and second, and Maynard had taken third. In the hammer throw Maynard had beaten us for first, we had taken second and Chamberlain third. When we had finished figuring we could hardly believe our eyes. The score stood:

Preston 40 Maynard 40 Chamberlain 28

The two-mile run, the last event, would decide the meet. And there was Beckner.

Of course we had not lost faith in Carl, but big, strong Beckner was clearly the freshest man on the field, and he would take a lot of beating. We had to have first place to win the meet. Second and third would not be enough, unless Fuller of Chamberlain got first. In that case the championship would go to the school that took second. We did not know whether Fuller was going to run or not, and we were pretty anxious to find out. Only Bobby seemed cheerful.

“We can beat them,” he said. “Why, Carl can make circles round Beckner, and as for Fuller, that mile run used him all up.”

“Maybe you will do something yourself, Bobby,” said I.

“I shouldn’t mind trying, but I guess they’re not going to let me enter. I didn’t show up very well in the mile; you can’t go in and set the pace and have anything left for the end. I came in fifth, though.” Bobby really looked pleased with himself.

“All out for the two-mile run!” called the clerk of the course, and we went down to the start. John Blake was looking blue.

“It’s a long way out to Ohio,” he said ruefully. “And the roads are dusty, too.”

“Fuller’s going to run, isn’t he?” I asked.

“Yes, and I don’t know whether that makes it better for us or worse.”

“Answer to your names!” called the clerk.

There were seven entries there: Carl and Bannet of our school, Beckner, Green and another Maynard runner, and Fuller and one other Chamberlain fellow.

“On your marks!” called the starter.

“Hold on, please,” said our coach. “We have another man coming. Where’s Hart?”

“Here,” said Bobby, stepping out from the group beside the track.

“Get in there,” said the trainer.

So Bobby, much pleased, took his place in the second line.

“Get ready!” said the starter.

“Set!” Then the pistol popped and they were off.

For the first mile and a half a two-mile race is generally rather uninteresting; but when the meet depends on it, that is different. We turned and watched the runners jog round the turn and come along the back stretch.

When they had covered a quarter of the distance, Fuller was no longer dangerous. He was running in short strides and had dropped back to seventh place. At the end of the first mile the runners were strung out all round the track. Green was making the pace. Behind Green was Beckner, running with a fine long stride, and almost treading on Beckner’s heels was Carl. Carl was not quite so pretty a runner to watch as the man in front of him.

Ten or twelve yards behind Carl ran Bannet; Bobby was following close. A third Maynard runner and Fuller were disputing sixth place. A long way behind them the last man, a Chamberlain chap, was lagging along. And that was still the order when the sixth lap began.

Beckner alone seemed untired. Carl’s cheeks were white, and had two spots of crimson in them. Bannet was looking pretty well used up, but Bobby seemed not yet fagged and hung on to Bannet closely. He had never tried himself to any extent in the two miles, but I thought that he was doing better than he had done in the mile.

Getting tired of making pace Green swung aside and let Beckner take the lead. Green fell in behind Carl, who was still treading in Beckner’s tracks. Then the distance between the first group and the second began to open; Bannet was tiring. For a while Bobby regulated his speed by Bannet’s, but soon he went round outside Bannet and passed him. That seemed to do Bannet good, for he spurted and kept close behind Bobby all round the track. The third Maynard man and Fuller were out of it for good by this time, and the eighth man had left the track.

There were only two laps left now, and the shouting was pretty continuous. Up at the head Beckner seemed to want Carl to take the lead, but Carl refused. That cheered us considerably, for it seemed to show that Beckner was weakening. Finally Green went to Beckner’s rescue; but he almost pumped himself out in doing it, and only set the pace for a few hundred feet, making it so slow that Bobby and Bannet closed up half the distance between them and Carl. Then Green fell out again and Beckner was once more ahead, but Carl was holding on grimly.

So it was when they turned into the home stretch. The shouting was tremendous now, for the spectators had left the stands and lined up along the track.

“Last lap! Last lap!” shouted the judges.

We shouted to Carl to keep it up! And the Chamberlain people, who liked us better than they liked Maynard, shouted the same thing. Even Bobby and Bannet were applauded, and I shouted to Bobby to go on and win.

On the turn Bannet stumbled and half fell, and lost several yards; that seemed to take the heart out of him. When the runners turned into the back stretch, Bobby was all alone a dozen yards behind Beckner, Carl and Green.

About the middle of the stretch Beckner started to draw away from Carl; but he only opened up about three yards before Carl was after him. That put Green out of it. We saw him wabble once and then throw up his arms and go over on the turf.

“Bobby’s going to get third place!” cried John. And, sure enough, there was Bobby still running, and running strong.

But our eyes were on Carl and Beckner. They were having it out, and as the turn began Carl crept up to the blue runner and tried to edge past; but he couldn’t quite do it, and Beckner held the lead by a few feet until they were in the straightaway and headed for the finish. Then Carl actually got in front. A lot of us had gone halfway down the track to meet them and were yelling ourselves hoarse.

“Come on, Carl! Come on! You can do it!”

The Maynard fellows were shouting to Beckner at the top of their lungs. Carl was just about holding his lead, when suddenly he staggered, got one foot on the raised board that runs along the inside of the track, and fell on the cinders. He was up in a second and running again, but he had lost three or four yards, was limping and was plainly exhausted. And Beckner, none too fresh himself, came on down the home stretch all alone, wabbling a bit, but apparently an easy winner.

“Look at _Bobby_!” cried John. “Oh, _look_ at Bobby!”

How he ever got there I don’t know, but there was that blessed Bobby coming along only a few yards behind Beckner and gaining on him at every stride. Now he had passed Carl; now he was almost up to the Maynard man; and we were racing alongside, leaping and shouting, while twenty yards ahead at the finish the judges were leaning forward with excited faces and their fingers on the “stops.”

Stride by stride Bobby overhauled Beckner. Now he could have touched him with his hand. Now he was running even. Now――

“_Preston!_” we cried. “_Preston! Preston!_”

And then there was the finish――Bobby flying down the turn and Beckner falling into the arms of his fellows.

“Who won?” I shouted, dancing about in the crowd.

“Hart, by two feet!” said some one.

And John and I grabbed each other and danced.

“Hurray!” shouted John. “I don’t have to walk home!”

“Did you hear the time?” cried Poole, hitting me on the back. “Ten minutes, thirty-six and four-fifths seconds! It breaks the record!”

We did an unusual thing that Spring. We elected a track-team captain who was not a senior. His name was Robert Hart.

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes:

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

――Printer’s, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

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