Chapter 12

THE MEET

The fact that the track meet between the two lower classes had been placed at an earlier date than that for which it had first been announced was a serious disappointment to Will Phelps. His success in the school athletics had made him quietly hopeful, if not confident, that he might be able to win some laurels in college, and he also was aware that the gold medal he wore upon his fob had made his own classmates expect great things from him. And the changed date now prevented him from doing any training and he must enter the contest without any preparation.

Reports had come to him that Mott and Ogden, the two fleetest-footed sophomores, had already been working hard, and rumors were also current that he himself was to be kidnapped and prevented from entering the games. Will had given but slight heed to any of these reports, but he had in his own mind decided that he would begin training at once for the contest, for if he should by any chance win then he would be the first member of his own class to gain the coveted privilege of wearing his class numerals upon his cap and sweater. And, not unnaturally, Will was eager to secure the honor.

As he thought over Mott's words he was half inclined to believe that the sophomore himself had been the cause of the unexpected change in the date of holding the games, and his feeling of anger and desire to win both became keener. There was no time, however, afforded in which he might make preparations for the meet, and he must simply do his best under existing circumstances. There was to be no burlesque or "horse play" in this contest, and the entire college would be on hand and interested to note the promise of the entering class in a department of college life that appealed strongly to all the students. Even his new determination to push his work in his Greek harder than ever he had done and his feeling of homesickness did not in the day that intervened between the present and the day of the games prevent his interest and excitement from increasing during the passing hours.

Saturday afternoon finally arrived, clear and cool, an ideal day for the contest. When Will stepped forth from the dressing-room, clad in his light running suit and with his bath robe wrapped around him, as he glanced over the track he could see that a crowd was already assembled. The sophomores were seated in a body in one portion of the "bleachers," and their noisy shouts or loud class cries rose steadily on the autumn air. Opposite was the freshman class, but its members were still too unfamiliar with their surroundings and with one another to enable them to join in anything like the unison of their rivals. In the grand stand were numbers of the members of the families of the faculty and the townspeople and visitors, and altogether the scene was one that strongly stirred Will and his room-mate, Foster Bennett, who also was to compete in the games.

Suddenly a loud, derisive shout arose from the sophomores, and Will glanced quickly up to discover its cause. In a moment the cause was seen, when Peter John Schenck came running across the field toward the place where Will and Foster were standing beside a few of their classmates, who were also waiting for the game to begin.

The sight of Peter John was one that caused even Will and Foster to smile, for their classmate was dressed as if he too was about to become a contestant, and this was something neither of them had expected. It was Peter John's garb, however, which had so greatly delighted the beholders, for it was unlike anything to be seen upon the field--"fearfully and wonderfully made," as Mott, who had joined them for a moment, had expressed it. Evidently it was the result of Peter John's own handiwork. His running trousers came to a place about halfway between his knees and ankles before they stopped, and were fashioned of coarse bagging or material very similar to it. He wore no running shoes, but a pair of gray woolen socks, plainly "hand made," provided a substitute. His "running shirt" was a calico blouse which had at one time doubtless served him as a garment in which he had done the daily chores upon his father's farm, but, as if to make matters still worse, a broad band of ribbon, the colors of the class, was diagonally fastened to his blouse in front, and Peter John's fierce shock of bright red hair, uncut since he had entered Winthrop, served to set off the entire picture he presented.

"Well, I guess we'll do 'em to-day, Will," exclaimed Peter John as he approached the group of which his friend was a member.

"I guess we will," remarked Mott soberly.

"I'm going to do my prettiest," continued Peter John.

"If you let anybody once get ahead of you, Schenck," said Mott, "you'll never catch him. If he sees you after him he'll run for his life."

"He'll have to!"

"What are you entered for?" inquired Mott, glancing at his program as he spoke.

"The half-mile run."

"Ever do it before?"

"Once or twice."

"What time did you make?"

"I don't just recollect."

"Never mind. You'll make a new record to-day."

"That's what I want to do," replied Peter John, sublimely unconscious that he was being made sport of by the sophomore.

The conversation was interrupted by the call, "All out for the hundred-yard dash!" and, as Will was to run in the first heat, he drew off his bath robe and tossing it to Foster, turned at once for the starting-place. He had already been indulging in a few trials of starting, but his feeling of confidence was by no means strong as he glanced at those who were to be his competitors. There were four runners in his heat, and one of them was Ogden, the sophomore of whose reputation as a "sprinter" Will already was aware. The other two were freshmen and therefore unknown quantities, but Will's chief interest was in Ogden. He could see the knots of muscles in his arms and back and legs, and his own feeling of confidence was in nowise strengthened by the sight. Certainly Ogden was a muscular fellow, and a competitor as dangerous as he was striking in his appearance.

The call, "On your marks," was given, and Will, with the other three, advanced and took his place on the line. Every nerve in his body seemed to be tingling with excitement and his heart was beating furiously.

"Get set!" called the starter, and then in a moment there followed the sharp report of the pistol and the runners were speeding down the course. Will felt that he had secured a good start, and but a few yards had been covered when he realized that he and Ogden were running almost side by side and had left the other two contestants behind them. Nor were their relative positions changed as they sped on down the track except that the distance between Will and Ogden and the two freshmen behind them was steadily increased. Will was dimly aware as he drew near the line that the entire sophomore body had risen and was noisily calling to their classmate to increase his speed. There was silence from the seats occupied by the freshman class, but Will was hardly mindful of the lack of support. Glancing neither to the right nor the left, he could almost instinctively feel that Ogden was a few inches in advance of him and all his efforts were centered upon cutting down the intervening distance.

As the contestants came within the last ten yards of the course, Will gathered himself together for one final burst of speed. His feet seemed scarcely to touch the ground as he darted forward. But Ogden was not to be outdone, for he too increased the pace at which he was running, and when they touched the line that was stretched across the course, the sophomore was still ahead by a few inches and had come in first in the heat, while Will was second.

Foster was standing near to catch his room-mate, and as he wrapped the bath robe around him, he said: "It's all right, Will; you're in the finals."

"First two taken?" gasped Will.

"Yes."

"Hold on. Let's hear the time," said Will, stopping abruptly as the announcer advanced.

"Hundred-yards dash, first heat," called the senior, "Won by number ten. Second, number fifteen. Time, ten and two-fifths seconds."

"That's good for the heat, Will," said Foster warmly.

"I'm not in training," said Will despondently.

"The others aren't either, or at least not much. You had Ogden nearly winded, and when it comes to the finals you'll do him up," said Foster encouragingly.

Will did not reply, for the call for the second heat was now made and he was intensely interested in watching Mott's performance, for his reputation in the college was even greater than Ogden's. And if he himself had been beaten by Ogden, what chance would he have against Mott? The question was not reassuring, but as the five men in the second heat could now be seen taking their positions on the line, it was for the moment ignored, as intensely interested he turned to watch the race that was about to be run.

In a moment the pistol was fired and the five contestants came speeding down the course. It was soon seen that Mott was leading, but only by a little, though he did not appear to be exerting himself strongly.

"Easy, dead easy!" Will heard a sophomore near him remark, and as he watched Mott's easy stride he heartily concurred in the opinion.

The runners were nearing the line now, and as Mott drew near he almost stopped for a moment and glanced smilingly behind him at his contestants. Instantly his nearest competitor darted forward and before the sophomore could recover himself he had touched the string and won the heat, with Mott a close second. Mott, however, appeared to be in nowise disconcerted and laughingly received the bantering words of his classmates. He laughed again when the time was announced as ten and four-fifths seconds, and approaching the place where Will and Foster were standing, said:

"You did well, freshman. Made better time than I did."

"I had to, if I kept anywhere near Ogden."

The other events of the meet were now being run off, and as Peter John Schenck took his place on the line for the half-mile run the uproar became almost tumultuous, and when the freshman apparently took it all in his most serious manner and bowed gravely to the sophomores, evidently appropriating to himself all the noisy demonstrations of delight, the shouts and laughter redoubled.

In a moment, however, the runners were off and Peter John quickly advanced to the first place, followed by a line of five that were well bunched together. There were many derisive calls and cries and Peter John's work seemed to be taken as a joke by all the spectators, who were loud in their declarations that he was "making a mistake" and would "never be able to maintain his stride." Around the course sped the runners until at last they were on the home stretch and still Peter John was in advance, his arms working like the fans of a Dutch windmill and his awkward movements becoming more awkward as the strain of the final part of the race came upon him. Still he was in the lead, however, and the derisive cries were giving place to shouts of approval and encouragement from his own classmates.

The increasing excitement seemed to provide an additional spur to the awkward freshman, for his speed suddenly increased and he darted across the line far in advance of his rivals who were bunched behind him. Laughter was mingled with the applause that greeted him, and when the captain of the college track team advanced and extended his hand in congratulation, the genuineness of the applause that followed was unquestioned.

Peter John, highly elated by his success, approached Will and said glibly: "There, Will, I rather guess that'll add five points to our score."

"I rather guess it will," laughed his classmate cordially. He was as greatly surprised as any one that day, but he was too generous to begrudge any praise to Peter John.

"Now see that you do as well," said Peter John, as the call for the finals in the hundred-yard dash was made.

Will made no response as he advanced to take his place. Foster had already won the running broad jump and was in a fair way to win the shot-put as well. Peter John had been successful too, and to Will it seemed that he must win his race or his disappointment would be almost too bitter to bear.

At the report of the pistol the contestants darted from the line and came speeding down the track toward the finish, which was near the place where the spectators were assembled. Vigorously, lusty, the perfection physically of young manhood, the four runners sped on with the swiftness of the wind, but when they touched the tape it was evident that Mott was first by a small margin and that Ogden was second, being an almost imperceptible distance in advance of Will Phelps, who had finished third in the race.