Part 5

They still had the sinking sun in their eyes when they began the descent, but when they had dropped a few hundred feet the gray mist was about them and, as the sun took that moment to disappear behind the mountain, they found that they had to proceed slowly and cautiously. It would be no difficult task to walk off the winding road and so get down faster and more painfully than desired. Tolly, who had eaten well but not wisely, had his wheel as well as himself to navigate and was frequently heard regretting the fact that he had yielded to the blandishments of the others and fetched it along! More than once the party came to a pause while Joe, leading, gingerly sought the direction of the erratic wagon road. The fog began to depress them and affected even Tolly’s good-nature. Twilight deepened the gloom and called for an increase of caution, and Joe had just finished an admonition to keep well toward the mountain side of the road when the accident happened.

There was a sharp exclamation of dismay and then a crashing of the bushes and low, stunted trees and silence. “What’s that?” called Joe startledly. “Anyone hurt?”

“Someone went over!” cried Hal. “Terry, I think!”

“I’m here! Tolly?”

“Here! I think it was Phil. O Phil!” There was no answer. They called again, creeping cautiously to the unguarded edge of the road. “I heard someone stumble,” gasped Hal, “and then something that sounded like ‘_Gee!_’ and then――――”

“We’ve got to go down there,” said Joe. “I wish we had a flashlight. Who’s got matches?”

They found him presently, thirty feet below, lodged against a small boulder that projected from the steep face of the cliff. They could get no reply to their anxious appeals, and when, by the light of many matches that burned dimly in the heavy mist, they found the back of his head wet with blood the explanation confronted them. Tolly went quite to pieces and babbled incoherently, but the others, to their credit, kept their heads in spite of their horror and fear. It was a hard task to get him back to the road, but they did it at last, and then an attempt was made to use the bicycle as an ambulance. But two trials showed the impossibility of that, for the road was never meant for bicycle traffic. To search for poles to make a litter of was out of the question, for the trees were small, wind-twisted things and the gloom was too deep for searching further. In the end it was Terry’s plan that was adopted. The others were to carry Phil between them as best they might and he would take the bicycle and get to Pearson as fast as he could and bring the doctor back.

Terry is not likely to forget that ride down the side of Bald Mountain even if he lives far beyond the allotted age of man. Once started there was no actual stopping, since he discovered to his dismay that Tolly’s wheel had no coaster brake. All he could do was hold back to the best of his ability, try to keep away from the outer edge of the road and trust to luck. Fortunately the fog thinned almost at once and the road was dimly visible ahead. But rocks and ruts were not visible, at least not in time for avoidance, and more than a dozen times Terry’s heart jumped into his throat as he felt the wheel bound aside perilously near the edge. After a minute or two the descent became more gradual and the roadbed better and he threw discretion to the winds and went tearing, bounding down, clinging to handlebars and saddle on a mad coast. In spite of his danger, or perhaps because of it, there was an exhilaration that made him forget for a moment or two the purpose of his errand. But then a vision of Phil’s white face under the dim light of flickering matches returned to him and he shuddered and would have gone faster yet had that been possible. Then the mountain road straightened out, the fog was gone, the wind ceased roaring past his ears and making his eyes water and lights shone faintly through the late twilight ahead. Short of the village he found his pedals again and, save that his cap had left him far back, presented a fairly reputable appearance as he brought up before the gate of the little white house on which he had noted in the afternoon a doctor’s sign. Fortunately the physician, a middle-aged and rather stodgy man, was at home, and fortunately too his small automobile was standing in the lane beside the house, its little engine chugging merrily, and in less than four minutes Terry had leaned Tolly’s bicycle against the white picket fence and was rattling and jouncing away into the early darkness with Doctor Strang. Presently the little car was panting against the increasing grade but still going well, dodging stones and obstacles, and before it was forced to acknowledge defeat Joe, Hal and Tolly came into sight through the darkness with Phil on their shoulders.

Then, with Phil on the back seat of the car and the boys hanging on wherever they could, the automobile was somehow turned and sent racing down the road again. Terry helped carry the still unconscious boy into the doctor’s office and then stood by while an examination was made. There was one long sigh of relief from all when the verdict was given. Phil had had a pretty hard blow on the base of the brain, producing unconsciousness, explained Doctor Strang, but there appeared to be no fracture of the skull, and it was likely that a few days in bed would bring him around where he could try more fool stunts like walking off the side of a mountain! After that the doctor got efficiently busy and ten minutes later Phil, conscious again, but pretty well bruised and not inclined to talk, was back in the car and they set off for Maple Park. It was nearly nine when they reached school and long after midnight before sleep came to either Terry or Joe.

Phil was a sick looking boy when Terry came in to see him for a minute the next afternoon in the infirmary, but he spoke hopefully of being all right by Thursday and Terry went off to the field presently with no premonition of what awaited him there. Lacon’s list of entries had arrived and Mr. Cramer and Steve Cooper, the latter captain of the Track Team and Maple Park’s all-around athlete, had looked it over and gone into executive session. Lacon had six nominees for the mile run against Maple Park’s three. Of course she might not start them all when the time came, but if she did Maple Park was due for a hard time. Six against three, with all the possibilities of pace-making, pocketing and general team-work, was too great an odds, and coach and captain did some tall thinking. If Hyde was able to run they might chance it, but if he wasn’t they would have only Gordon and Pillon; two entries against six!

“I don’t like it,” said Mr. Cramer. “It doesn’t look good, Cap. Whether Hyde enters or doesn’t it’s safe to say that he won’t be much use to us. I’m for filling up with two or three men to make it look like a race, anyway. We can count on Gordon copping first or second place, but we need more points than that. That Lacon bunch can kill off Pillon easily. Look here, let’s start a couple of half-milers. They can’t do any harm and they may worry Lacon a bit. If Howland makes the pace half-way through it may upset Lacon’s calculations and let us edge in for third place. Howland and Green and――I wonder about young Wendell, Cap. The boy’s got a lot of grit and he will try anything you can show him. And I’m not so sure he isn’t meant for a miler, anyway. At least he might give those red-and-gray fellows a tussle. Sound fair?”

Cooper thought it did, and that’s why, when the day’s workouts were over three surprised half-milers were trying to get used to the knowledge that just three days later they were to “kill themselves” in two laps of a mile run. Neither Howland nor Green showed much enthusiasm at the prospect. There would be perhaps thirty minutes between the races, but Howland didn’t think that he would have much appetite for the mile after running the half, no matter how much rest he got between whiles. And Green spoke to much the same effect. Of the three only Terry was pleased. Terry was more than pleased. He was supremely delighted. He didn’t imagine for a moment that he would secure first place, or second, or third, but he had a sort of sneaking idea that fourth place might not be beyond the possibilities, and when he recalled that rash boast to Walt Gordon he realized that one point might save him from utter disgrace. He had often wondered why on earth he had ever issued such a crazy challenge as that! He had as much chance of winning more points than Walt as――as he had of flying!

There was easy work on Tuesday and none at all on Wednesday, save that certain of the team were sent on a walk into the country in the afternoon. Terry was among them. So was Walt Gordon, still haughty and contemptuous. Hyde was not. It was known now that Phil had been dropped. He was still in bed and still plastered and bandaged. Maple Park wasn’t thinking any too well of her chances of winning the Meet just then. Terry was no longer down for the four-forty. In something under three weeks he had developed from a quarter-miler into a distance runner, which was, to use Tolly’s phrase, “going some!” As the day of the Meet drew near Terry began to experience a mild form of stage-fright, and there were moments when he almost, if not quite, wished that he had been less ambitious and had only the four-forty to win or fail in.

Thursday dawned with a drizzling rain. Before noon the sun came out hotly, but the track was sodden and slow and the jumping-pits little better than mud-holes. Lacon arrived, colorful and noisy, at twelve and by two o’clock the athletic field was a busy scene. The small grand-stand was crowded and spectators to the number of nearly a thousand lined the rope outside the track. A tent which flew the cardinal-and-gray of Lacon Academy had been set up as a dressing place for the visitors and about it lolled or strolled a fine-looking band of invaders. The trials in the 100-yards dash opened the event, while pole-vaulters and jumpers began their leisurely competitions.

Maple Park showed up badly in the first events. Hal Merrill won her only first in the sprints and got a second place in the high hurdles. In the low hurdles he failed to qualify, getting a poor start and not being able to make it up. The quarter-mile went to Lacon and she took eight of the eleven points. In the field events, however, the home team was showing up unexpectedly well and, when the half-mile was called, the adversaries were running close as to scores. That half-mile proved to be a pretty run. In spite of rumor, Lacon was not so strong as feared, and Howland finished a good eight yards ahead of the next runner, a Lacon youth. Terry got third place, to everyone’s surprise, beating out a red-and-gray boy in the final twenty yards. Terry got more applause from his schoolmates than Howland, I think, and walked back to the gymnasium breathless but delighted. At last, he told himself, he had really succeeded in something, and even if winning third place and thereby adding two points to Maple Park’s score wasn’t anything to gloat over it was highly satisfactory to him!

With all events save the mile run, the hammer throw and the pole vault decided it was still anyone’s victory. Maple Park had 51 points and Lacon 48. Then, while the milers were limbering up in front of the grand-stand, word came of the hammer-throw and Lacon had taken six of the eleven points and was now but two points behind. She had already secured a first in the pole-vault and it was a question what of the remaining places she would capture. It very suddenly dawned on the spectators that the Meet hinged on the last event and that the victory would likely go to the team winning the majority of points in the mile run!

Perhaps it was as well for Terry’s peace of mind that he didn’t know that, for he was feeling rather out of his element and extremely doubtful as to the part he was to play. His instructions had been to get up with Howland and Green and force the running as long as he could, taking the lead from Howland, in case that runner secured it, and making the pace a hot one to at least the end of the second lap. But they had placed him in the second row of starters and well toward the outer edge of the track and he foresaw difficulties in making his way to the front. Gordon was almost directly ahead and Pillon was second man from the pole in the first rank, with Howland rubbing elbows with him. Then the word came to get set and an instant later they were off, crowding in toward the board, jostling and scurrying. But that didn’t last long. In a moment or two all had found their places, a long-legged Lacon runner named Shores setting the pace. At the turn Pillon went past Shores and Howland passed Pillon. Terry was in fifth place, with Green just ahead. Walt Gordon was seventh man and Mullins, the Lacon hope, was ninth. Once around the turn Howland caused a ripple of surprise by drawing ahead at a killing pace. Shores accepted the challenge and the leaders generally moved faster, but neither Gordon nor Mullins altered their speed a mite. Terry moved into fourth place and the field began to string out. Howland kept the lead to the end of the lap and then weakened, and Terry, remembering instructions, strove to get to the front. But Green was at his toes and a Lacon runner had him effectually pocketed as they went into the turn. Consequently it was Green who became pace-maker, and a hard pace he set. One by one the tail-enders fell farther and farther away and the contestants formed into two groups. At the half distance the order was Green, Shores, Pillon, Terry, an unknown Lacon runner, Gordon and Mullins. Well back trailed Howland and three Lacon men.

Green was soon finished as a pace-maker and in the back-stretch Shores was again in front. As Green dropped back to Terry he gasped: “Get up there, Wendell!” And Terry tried, but the Lacon unknown moved even and held him at every attempt, and then came the turn and Terry gave it up. The race was telling on him now and his legs were getting heavy and his lungs hot. Into the homestretch they went, the crowd shouting wildly. As they sped past the mark the brazen gong clanged, announcing the beginning of the last lap, and at that instant Mullins dug his spikes and edged himself forward. Past his team-mate he went, past Terry, past Pillon, and took his place close behind Shores. From behind him Terry heard the Lacon supporters shout their triumph. He wondered where Walt was. Every instant he expected to see the blue-and-white runner edge past him. But they made the turn and straightened out and still Gordon held back. Terry grew frightened then. Shores and Mullins were gaining. Pillon came back steadily as Terry dug harder and sought to overtake the leaders. The unknown Lacon man――his name later turned out to have been Geary, but at the time Terry had to hate him without being able to put a name to him――crept up and past. Terry’s fleeting glimpse of him showed him a runner nearly “all in” but making a desperate effort. Terry took courage and set his pace by the unknown’s. And just then the sound from across the oval took on a new note and something appeared at Terry’s shoulder and slowly moved into sight and Terry, to his great relief, saw that the something was Walt Gordon.

It was only when Walt had put a half-dozen yards between them and leaned to the turn that Terry realized with sudden alarm that Walt was in little better condition than the unknown who, just in front of Terry, was wavering badly, his head sagging. Shores yielded the lead to Mullins half-way around the turn and an instant later Terry passed the unknown. He was running now with only a firm determination to finish. It would have been the greatest joy in life to have staggered aside and dropped full-length on the blurred expanse of sod at his feet. He wasn’t even thinking of points or places. He only wanted to finish what he had started, and he prayed silently and incoherently to be allowed to keep his feet past that distant white mark.

Down at the finish were straining eyes and taut nerves, for the pole-vault was over and Lacon had won first place and fourth and the score now stood 61 to 60 in favor of Maple Park. As the runners made the turn Maple Park’s supporters read defeat. Showing the pace, but still looking strong, came Mullins with a good five yard lead over Gordon, who was a scant yard ahead of Shores. Four or five paces behind them was Pillon, about ready to quit, and Terry, scarcely less willing. The unknown had disappeared. If Gordon had looked better Maple Park would have found reason to hope, but he was already slipping. For once his well-known ability to sprint at the finish was lacking. Terry, looking across the last corner, saw Walt’s head fall back. Walt recovered the next instant, but Terry understood. Pillon, too, was giving up. There was nothing to it now but Lacon, and maybe the Meet would go to the Cardinal-and-White! Terry’s distorted face writhed with a scowl. If only he had somehow kept himself fresher! If only he could cut down that distance! They were in the homestretch now and the finish was in sight. There wasn’t time, even if he had the strength and lungs.

Pillon was no longer in sight to Terry now: only Shores, wobbling on his long, spindly legs, Walt, losing at every stride, and Mullins, ready to drop but still fighting. Still fighting! Why, two could play at that game! After all, thought Terry, he was still there and his legs were still working under him and his breath was still coming! Perhaps if he tried desperately―――― There might be time――――.

Somehow he reached Shores, ran even with him for an instant and passed him. Then Walt came back to him, slowly but surely. He was running in a dream now, a dream filled with a great noise that seemed to come from very far away, a dream that was a nightmare of leaden limbs and aching lungs and tired body. He felt no triumph when he pulled up to Walt, no exultation when he went past him. He hardly knew that he had done so. His wavering gaze was fixed on the one last form between him and the nearing goal. He knew now that he could never overtake it, but he kept on, doggedly, fighting against exhaustion at every stride. The great noise was louder in his ears but meant nothing to him. A little distance away down that interminable gray path other forms were stretched from rim to rim. When he got there he would be through. That would be wonderful!

Something tried to get in his way and he weakly put out a hand as though to push it aside, but some saving sense, or it may have been utter weakness, prevented, and he let it fall again. He scraped slowly past the obstacle, slowly because the obstacle appeared to be going his way and hung at his elbow for what seemed long minutes, and staggered on. Once his feet got sort of confused and he nearly fell, but he saved himself. He had forgotten Mullins now, everything save his desire to reach that goal, to finish what he had attempted, to come through! And suddenly he was struggling weakly against arms that tried to hold him back, panting, swaying.

“Let me alone!” he gasped. “Let me――finish!”

“You have finished, Terry!” said a voice that was very far away. “You’ve won, you crazy kid!”

* * * * *

So that’s how Terry “came through” and how Maple Park School discovered a new miler. Also how the Blue-and-White won the Dual Meet from Lacon, for Walt Gordon staggered over in fourth place, making the final figures 67 to 65. Walt was never quite the same after that, for his self-esteem had had a pretty severe blow, and as a result he was much more likeable. He must have been, else he and Terry would never have roomed together the next year.

SPOOKS

Daniel Webster Jones, Jr., had solemnly pronounced anathema, malediction and imprecation upon Talbot Cummings. He had put his whole heart and soul into it and concentrated until his head felt funny. That had been yesterday afternoon, just after dinner, and now, more than twenty-four hours later, there was Cummings stalking untroubledly along the sloppy walk in the direction of the library, for all the world as if Jonesie’s passionate utterances had been benedictions and blessings. Gee, it was enough to make a fellow doubt the efficacy of condemnation! Jonesie flattened his somewhat button-like nose against the pane in order to watch his enemy’s ascent of the library steps. It was February, and such things as steps and walks were treacherous surfaces of glaring ice under pools of water. But Cummings never even faltered, and Jonesie’s radiant vision of his enemy prostrate with a number of broken limbs and all sorts of mysterious internal injuries, to say nothing of outward contusions, lacerations and abrasions, faded into thin air. A prey to keen disappointment, his painfully oblique gaze unwavering, Jonesie watched Cummings disappear and the big oak door closed behind him.

Disconsolately he sank back on the window-seat, rearranged his feet on “Sparrow” Bowles’ treasured crimson silk cushion and again took up his book. But although it was one of Kingston’s corkingest sea-yarns, to-day it failed to hold Jonesie’s attention, and presently it was face-down on that young gentleman’s stomach while his thoughts pursued the hated Cummings.

Cummings, you must know, had dealt a frightful blow at Jonesie’s dignity. Cummings might call it a joke, but its victim viewed it rather as a dastardly attempt to disgrace him. It had started with a perfectly excusable confusion of words on Jonesie’s part; and if blame lay anywhere save on Cummings it lay on the English language, which contained words that looked alike and meant differently.

Cummings, who roomed next door, had dropped in to borrow an eraser, and while Jonesie, who didn’t possess such a thing, was obligingly rummaging through the cherished treasures of the absent room-mate, Cummings’s reptilian eye had fallen on a composition on which his host had been engaged and which he had left on the table. Jonesie had next heard a choking sound from the visitor and had then witnessed his hurried departure, composition in hand. Surprised, Jonesie had made outcry. Then, suspicious, nay, chilled with dire apprehension, he had given chase. But a moment of delay had been his undoing. Below on the steps, where, since it was a mild, thawing day, most of the inhabitants of the dormitory were awaiting two o’clock recitations, Cummings was already reading aloud Jonesie’s epochal essay. “‘The ancient Greeks,’” gurgled the traitorous Cummings, “‘had a law forbidding a man to have more than one wife.’” The reader’s voice broke, and Jonesie felt that the tears were near his eyes. “‘This they called _monotony_!’”