Part 4

A groan of derision arose. “A real ball-player!” said Hal. “You poor fish, you never caught a ball but once in your life, and then you couldn’t get out of its way!” Hal rolled over a little so that he could see Terry. “You never heard about that, did you, Terry?” he asked. “It was last Spring. Tolly was trying for the nine and the coach sort of let him hang around and look after the bats and keep the water bucket filled, you know. The only trouble was that he was so small that fellows were always falling over him, and finally Murdock, who was captain then, decided to get rid of him. But Tolly hid behind the bucket and Murdock couldn’t find him, and one day we played Spencer Hall and a fellow named Williams, the regular left fielder, was sick, and another fellow got spiked or something and there was only Tolly left. So Murdock called him and Tolly crawled out from under a glove――――”

“Aw, dry up,” grumbled Tolly.

“And they put him out in center, just to fill up, you know. Of course Murdock told him that if a fly came toward him to run like the dickens and not try to worry it. And sure enough one of the Spencer Hall fellows lit on a good one and sent it into left. Tolly was dreaming away out there, or picking daisies or something: I forget: and all of a sudden he heard a yell and here was that awful ball sailing right down at him! It was a horrible moment in Tolly’s young life. He tried hard to run away, but the pesky ball just followed him. If he ran back the ball went after him. If he ran to the right the ball went that way too. It was awful! Poor old Tolly nearly fainted. Center fielder was coming hard for it, but it was a long hit――――”

“The longest ever made on the field!” interpolated Tolly proudly.

“And he couldn’t reach it. Tolly saw that there was no use trying to escape, so finally he stood still, resolved to sell his life dearly, and put up his hands to ward off the ball. Well, sir, Terry, that ball went right against Tolly’s hands and Tolly gave a cry of fear and fell down unconscious!”

“Is that so?” demanded Tolly indignantly. “Well, the ball stuck, didn’t it? And I wasn’t so unconscious that I couldn’t jump up and peg to shortstop, was I? _Huh!_”

“So after that,” concluded Hal, “as a sort of reward for accidentally saving the game, they let him sit on the bench and called him a substitute fielder.”

Terry joined in the laughter, and then, catching Tolly’s eyes on him, stopped suddenly. There was something of apology in Tolly’s look and Terry understood. It was Tolly who had profited by his failure. Tolly would play right field after this. He was made certain of it the next moment, for Walt Gordon remarked:

“Well, you’re all right now, Tolly. They can’t keep a good man down, eh?”

“How’s that?” asked Hal, who was not a ball player, but performed on the track, being one of the school’s best sprinters and no mean hand at the hurdles.

Walt shot a questioning glance at Terry. “Don’t you know, Hal? Why, Terry has decided to quit us,” answered Walt. “What’s next, Terry? The Tennis Team?”

Terry flared instantly, quite as much to his own surprise as to theirs, for he was not usually quick-tempered. “You mind your own business, Walt,” he snapped. “I’ll attend to mine.”

Walt flushed. “Is that so?” he sneered. “Well, I’m just curious, that’s all. There’s only the Tennis Club left, you know. Unless you go in for chess.”

“Cut it out, Walt,” said Joe. “Let him alone.”

“Then tell him to let me alone. I didn’t say anything to make him jump down my throat. Everyone here knows he’s had a whack at everything there is and fallen down. If he doesn’t like to hear that he knows what he can do. I’m ready to――――”

Terry leaped to his feet. “Then come on!” he cried, his eyes blazing. “If you can do anything besides talk, prove it, you――you big――――”

“Shut up, Terry!” commanded Joe sternly. “And sit down. There isn’t going to be any scrapping. You mustn’t fly off the handle like that. And you, Walt, shouldn’t say such things. There’s no disgrace in trying and failing as long as you don’t grouch about it. Terry’s plucky to keep on trying, I think.”

“Of course he is,” agreed Tolly warmly. “You shut up, Walt.”

Walt shrugged disdainfully. “Oh, very well. Four against one――――”

“There’s one thing I haven’t fallen down at yet,” interrupted Terry, still angry, “and that’s running, and――――”

“Also-running, you mean,” laughed Walt. “You’re the finest little also-ran in the history of the school, Wendell!”

“Am I? Let me tell you something, Gordon. I’ll be running when you’ve quit. If I’m an ‘also-ran,’ you’re a quitter. You quit last Fall because Hyde had twenty yards on you in the next to the last lap. You thought no one――――”

“That’s a lie! I turned my ankle on the board――――”

“Did you? Well, you walked well enough five minutes later. Look here, I’ll bet you right now, anything you like, that I’ll win more points than you when we meet Lacon!”

“Don’t be a chump, Terry,” begged Hal.

“Oh, piffle!” sneered Walt. “You won’t even be on the track!”

“That’s my lookout. Will you bet?”

“No, he won’t,” said Joe. “And that’ll be about all from both of you. Now dry up. If I hear any more from either of you I’ll chuck you over the ledge. Is this what you chaps call a peaceful Sunday afternoon?”

“All right, I will dry up,” replied Terry. “But he heard me. And I mean what I said. And when the Dual Meet is over he will know it!”

The next afternoon Terry went across to the field the moment he had finished his last recitation. Mr. Cramer――Sam to the older boys, but “Coach” to the others――was busy with a bunch of hurdlers, amongst whom was Hal, when Terry arrived, and he had to wait several minutes before he was able to claim the trainer’s attention. Down at the farther end of the oval Joe and a half-dozen others were moving about the pits, while various white-clad forms jogged or sprinted around the track. The Dual Meet with Lacon Academy, Maple Park’s dearest foe, was only a little more than a fortnight distant and a late Spring had held back the team’s development discouragingly. This Monday afternoon Coach Cramer was in a hustling mood, and there was a hint of impatience in his voice when he called the hurdlers back for the third start.

“Stop trying to beat the pistol!” he barked. “The next fellow who does it will stay out. Now then, on your mark! _Set!_”

_Bang_ went the pistol and six slim, lithe figures hurled themselves forward and went darting down the lanes. Hal began to gain at the fourth hurdle――they were doing the 220-yards sticks――and at the finish was running strong. Terry noticed that he held back between the last barrier and the string and let Porter breeze past him into first place. While the next squad were taking their places Terry addressed the trainer.

“Mr. Cramer, don’t you think I might try the half, sir?” he asked. “I’ve sort of got a hunch I can do better at a longer distance than the four-forty.”

“Hello, Wendell. What’s that? The half? We don’t need you in the half, my boy. You stick to the quarter. I guess that’s your distance, if you have any. How are you feeling to-day?”

“Fine, sir.”

“All right. Jog a couple of laps and then try some starts. I’m going to give you quarter-milers a trial at four.”

“Yes, sir: and about that half, Mr. Cramer. There wouldn’t be any harm in my just trying it, would there? I mean later on, after the trial.”

“I don’t know.” The coach and trainer turned and looked Terry over speculatively. “No, I guess not, if it’s going to please you. But take it easy. Three minutes is fast enough. I’ll tell you now, though, that it don’t do you any good, for we’ve got so many half-milers that we can’t use them all.”

Terry managed to scrape past in fourth place in the four-forty trial, beating out Connover and Dale, and felt rather proud until Mr. Cramer dryly announced the winner’s time to have been 54⅗ seconds, which was more than a second slower than it should have been. He wrapped himself in his gaudy green-and-red dressing gown and went over to watch the jumpers for awhile, and finally, when the field was nearly empty and Pete, the grounds-keeper, was removing the standards, he walked over to the start of the distances, wriggled out of his gown, limbered his legs a minute and then went off, hugging the inside rim. He had to guess at his speed. He knew from watching others that the eight-eighty was a different race from the quarter and all the way round the first lap he held himself back so that he might have some reserve for the finish. But when he had put the turn behind him and entered the backstretch on the second lap his lungs were protesting and his legs had lost their spring. It was a pretty wobbly runner who at last crossed the finish, and who was glad to sit down for a moment, his gown flung around his shoulders. He was thankful that none of the few fellows remaining had apparently noticed his journey along the homestretch. He went back to the gymnasium rather discouraged, but a shower-bath perked him up considerably, and after he had talked with Joe he felt still better. For Joe pointed out that after having run in a quarter-mile trial he had scarcely been in ideal condition to do himself justice in the eight-eighty. Joe wasn’t especially sympathetic toward Terry’s ambition to add the half-mile to his repertoire, but he was too good-natured to throw cold water on it.

The next afternoon Terry divided his time――and, since he was no longer essential to the nine, he had plenty of it――between the routine prescribed by the coach and his self-training for the half. Perhaps had Terry been viewed by Mr. Cramer a trifle more seriously he would not have been allowed to risk overtraining, but the coach wasn’t especially impressed with the boy’s efforts. Perhaps next year Terry might find himself, and it was in that hope that the coach gave him such encouragement as he did. Of course Terry didn’t go the full half-mile on Tuesday, nor yet on Wednesday. He knew better than to do that. What he did do was follow in a general way the instructions given to the half-milers. He tried short sprints of thirty and forty yards at top-speed, jogged a mile each day and at last, on Thursday, cut in with the half-milers and ran the three-quarters with them――or, rather, behind them――at a fairly good clip. He was trying hard to learn this new distance, and it wasn’t easy. He knew fairly well how hard he could go for the four-forty without running himself out, but twice around the track, with eight corners to reckon instead of four, was a vastly different proposition.

And yet, when Saturday came and he gave up seeing the Prentiss game for the sake of running, he felt sure enough of himself to ask permission to enter the trial with the regular half-milers. Mr. Cramer gave rather impatient permission and Terry took his place in the second row and tried to remain unconscious of the looks of surprise or amusement with which his companions viewed him. Terry Wendell was in a fair way to become rather a joke, it seemed. But Terry didn’t do so badly in the trial, after all, for out of the field of twelve he finished seventh. It was a poor seventh, to be sure, and he never learned his time, but he thought that Mr. Cramer observed him a bit more tolerantly afterwards, even if he had nothing to say to him. That race taught Terry one thing, which was that the half-mile was not so long as he had reckoned it. He had run too slow in the first lap. Another time, he told himself, he would know better than to let the others get away from him like that. He had finished the race with a lot of reserve which, had he called on it before, might have put him in fourth place at least.

Relations between him and Walt Gordon were strained. Walt, secure in the knowledge of his supremacy in the mile run, was not worried by Terry’s new activity. Walt was pretty sure of handing over five points to his school in the Dual, for Lacon was known to be weak in the mile, and was equally sure that if Terry managed to secure the one point that went with fourth place he would be doing more than anyone expected of him. But Terry’s accusation to the effect that Walt had quit in the Fall Meet held just enough truth to be unpleasant to the latter youth, and his feelings in consequence were not very cordial toward Terry. As to the incident mentioned, why, it didn’t amount to much in Walt’s judgment, but, just the same, he preferred that fellows shouldn’t suspect it. He _had_ turned his ankle in the third lap, just as he had said, but there was no denying that had Hyde not had a fifteen or twenty yard lead on him he would have finished the race without untold agony. As it was, it wasn’t worth while. Everyone knew that he was better than Hyde. And Walt hated to be beaten! He and Terry didn’t speak to each other just now: didn’t even see each other if they could help it: but Terry heard from Tolly that Walt was making amusing remarks about the new half-miler: and it needed only that to make Terry buckle down to track work harder than ever.

Tolly had covered himself with glory in the Prentiss game, getting two hits off the visiting pitcher, which was one more than anyone else had secured and two more than most. And he had fielded well, besides. The fact that Prentiss had won the contest in a last fatal inning didn’t detract from Tolly’s glory. Terry, though still hurt over being dropped, was glad that Tolly had succeeded to his position, and said so, and Tolly showed vast relief. “I was afraid you’d be sore at me,” he explained. “I didn’t want you to think that I was trying to get you out, Terry. Anyway, you’d have done just as well as I did if you’d been in my place.” Terry wanted to think that, too, but he couldn’t quite do it.

On Monday Mr. Cramer surprised him by saying: “I guess you’d better cut out your sprints to-day, Wendell. You didn’t do so badly in the half Saturday and I’ve half a mind to let you see what you can do. How did you come through?”

“Fresh as a daisy, sir.”

“Well, go easy this afternoon. Jog a mile and do a short sprint at the finish. If I were you I’d try for a shorter stride, my boy. It looks to me as if you were straining a bit. There’s nothing in a long stride if it doesn’t come natural.”

The next day, when work was over, the coach spoke again. “I’ll put you down for the half, Wendell,” he said. “There’s no doubt about your being a better middle-distance runner than a sprinter. And I’m not sure that you’ve found your right line yet. Next Fall, if I were you, I’d have a try at the mile. Maybe you can run them both. There’ll be another trial about Friday, and if you show up well I’ll enter you for the Dual.”

Terry went back to Munsing Hall with his heart beating high. He found Hal Merrill and Phil Hyde there with Joe. Hyde was an upper middler, a slim, dark-complexioned fellow with quiet manners. He and Hal roomed together over in Warren. “Here’s another one,” said Hal as Terry entered. “Want to go on a hike Sunday, Terry?”

“I guess so. Where?”

“Bald Mountain. We’re going to take grub along and make a fire. Phil’s getting too fat and wants to reduce.”

“That’s a bully way of doing it,” Terry laughed, viewing Hyde’s lean form. “Bald Mountain’s a good five miles.”

“And the last mile all uphill,” added Joe grimly. “I’m game, though. Who else is going?”

“Guy Fosdick, I guess, and Tolly. We don’t want too many. Take that alcohol stove of yours, Joe, will you? We’ll make some coffee on it. I don’t mind frying steak on an open fire, but coffee’s something else again.”

Presently Phil Hyde said to Terry: “I hear you’ve blossomed out as a half-miler, Wendell.” Terry said “Yes” suspiciously and waited for the inevitable joke. But Phil only remarked that he hoped Terry would beat out some of those “one-lungers.”

“‘One-lungers’ is good,” approved Hal laughingly. “Some of those fellows, like Lambert and Tilling, have about as much license to be running in the half-mile as I’d have to――to throw the hammer!”

“Our chance of winning the Dual is about as big as a piece of cheese,” growled Joe. “I was figuring this morning and all I can see with a telescope is forty-four points. We can count on first and second in the hundred-yards and in the mile, but I don’t see another first in sight; unless it’s in the high hurdles.”

“Better not count on that either,” said Hal. “Munroe can beat me out two times out of three. But what about your own stunt? Mean to say you aren’t going to get a first in the shot-put.”

“I’m not counting on it,” replied Joe. “Cobb, of Lacon, has been doing thirty-seven feet right along in practice, I hear.”

Hal whistled expressively, but Phil advised them not to believe all they heard. “And don’t be too sure of second place in the mile, either, Joe. Walt’s been doing a lot of talking about how poor our hated rival is, but I’ve a hunch that some of their milers will give us a good tussle. Of course, Walt’s sure of his five points, but I may be lucky to get one instead of three. You can’t tell. Besides, they’ll enter four or five men to our three, and that gives them the edge of the start. Still, I guess we’ve got a show for the meet, Joe. If you can see forty-four points to-day we can hustle around a week from Thursday and round up a few more. Never say die, old dear!”

From Tuesday until Friday Terry lived in a condition of alternate hope and despair. There were times when he felt that he was bound to fail in the trial and times when he believed that he could make good. He was still working at the quarter, but there was no disguising the fact that at least three of his team-mates had made better progress in their training than he had, and he felt very certain that his only chance of representing Maple Park the following Thursday lay in qualifying with the half-milers.

Mr. Cramer sent them away at a little after four that afternoon, a round dozen in all, of whom no more than six could expect to be chosen for competition against Lacon. After it was over, just two minutes and eleven seconds later, Terry was surprised to think how easy it had been. He had not made the mistake this time of holding back at the start, but had pushed to third place at once and held it to the last corner of the first lap. Then Howland set him back and he passed the line running fourth. Stevens, setting the pace, yielded as they turned into the backstretch and Terry was again in third place. A red-haired senior named Wallace gave him a hard race along the straight, but Terry beat him to the turn by a stride and hugged the rim as he came around into the homestretch. By that time the field was strung out halfway around and two of the competitors had fallen out. Howland had taken the lead and was having it nip-and-tuck with Green. Terry followed a good half-dozen yards behind. Stevens put a scare into him just short of the finish, but Terry had something left and beat him across by a few strides. The next morning Maple Park’s entries for the Dual Meet were mailed to her rival and the name of Terry Wendell was amongst them.

There was no work for the track and field men on Saturday, and so Terry and Joe sat together and saw the Lacon Academy Baseball Team go down to defeat by the score of 6 to 5 in a ten-inning contest filled with thrills. Starting out as a pitchers’ battle, it developed toward the end into a fielding competition. Both sides took to hitting, but hardly a hit got beyond the infield unless it was a high and safe fly, and victory depended on perfect defense. It was, properly enough, Captain Fosdick who broke the tie in the tenth. With one gone and a man on first, Fos laid down a bunt that should have been converted into an easy out. But Lacon’s taut nerves jangled badly and the third baseman, trying for speed, pegged wide of first. The runner on first kept on to third and then, with the ball speeding across to that bag, took a long and desperate chance. He put his head down and scuttled for the plate. Had the third baseman not been rattled by his previous misplay, the runner’s chance would have been poor indeed, but the Lacon player, surprised, doubtful, hesitated an instant too long and then had to throw hurriedly. If the ball had reached the catcher below his waist he might have sent the game into the eleventh inning, but he had to reach for it, and before he could sweep it down on the runner that youth had hooked a foot across the rubber and the baseball championship of the year was Maple Park’s.

That victory cheered the school hugely and was accepted as a good augury for the Meet. And it was reflected in the spirits of the five boys who met in 12 Munsing at two the next day and, a few minutes later clattered downstairs and started off on their picnic. Fos had failed them at the last moment, and so the party was composed of Joe, Terry, Hal, Tolly and Phil Hyde. Each one carried his portion of the provender and cooking apparatus, Hal looking picturesque with a skillet flapping over his hip. Tolly produced a chorus of contemptuous protest when he wheeled his bicycle from concealment alongside the entrance of Munsing and nonchalantly mounted it.

“This is a hike, you lazy beggar!” said Joe. “Get off that thing!”

But Tolly explained. He was a good explainer. “That’s all right for you fellows, but I’m not up to ten miles to-day. Think of what I went through yesterday, Joe! Winning a game like that one takes it out of you!”

“You didn’t even get a hit!” jeered Hal.

“Hits aren’t everything,” answered Tolly loftily. “Someone has to do the brain work. Besides, five miles _is_ a bit of a jaunt when the last two are uphill, and we can take turns on the wheel. And we can strap a lot of things on it, too, and not have to lug ’em.”

That sounded more reasonable and Tolly won. Later they were thankful that he had, for Fate brought about circumstances that made that bicycle a fortunate possession. They didn’t try for a record and consumed nearly three hours in reaching the top of Bald Mountain. The roads were good until they reached the little village of Pearson, at the foot of the mountain, but from there they had rough going. The wagon road which wound to the summit by devious ways was rutted and rock-strewn and the last half of it was pretty steep. But they took it easy and were on top before five and at half-past had their fire going in the stone fire-place that some thoughtful persons had built several years before. They still had three hours of daylight before them, a cooling breeze swept past them from the southwest and they were comfortably weary and as hungry as five bear cubs. Hal cooked and Terry officiated at the coffee pot. After all they had to make coffee over the fire, for, although Joe had faithfully brought along his alcohol heater, he had made the lamentable mistake of forgetting the alcohol! But the coffee tasted all right, even if it was muddy. And the steak――well, when Tolly got his first taste of that steak he just turned his eyes Heavenward and said “_Oh boy!_” in awed rapture. There were baked potatoes, too, a bit solid in the middle and somewhat charred outside but fine elsewhere, and toast――if you could wait for it――and bananas and cakes of chocolate. Nothing marred the beatific success of the jaunt up to the time that the fog arrived. It was Joe who drew the attention of the others to the fact that the wide-flung landscape below them was no longer visible. As a fog on Bald Mountain is a damp and chilly affair, and as it is no particular aid to finding one’s way down a road that twists like a grapevine, they decided to make an early start.