On Your Mark! A Story of College Life and Athletics Read online

  CHAPTER I

  THE WINNER OF THE MILE

  "All out for the mile!"

  Myer, clerk of the course, stuck his head inside the dressing-tent andbawled the command in a voice already made hoarse by his afternoon'sduties. In response a dozen or so fellows gathered their blanketsor dressing-gowns about them and tumbled out into the dusk of amid-October evening. Because of the fact that on Wednesday and Saturdayafternoons the athletic field was required for the football contestsit was necessary to hold the Fall Handicap Meeting on one of the otherdays of the week. This year it was on Friday, October 17th, and becausethe Erskine College faculty does not permit athletic contests of anysort to begin before four o'clock on any day save Saturday, the milerun, the last event on the program, was not reached until almost sixo'clock; and in the middle of October in the latitude of Centerport itis almost dark at that time.

  It was cold, too. A steady north wind blew down the home-stretch andmade the waiting contestants dance nimbly about on their spiked shoesand rub their bare legs. That wind had helped the sprinters, hurdlers,and jumpers very considerably, since it had blown against their backson the straightaway and the runway, enabling them to equal the Erskinerecord in two cases and break it in a third. It was Stearns, '04, thetrack-team captain and crack sprinter who, starting from scratch, hadperformed the latter feat. Until to-day the Erskine record for the220-yards dash had been twenty-two seconds flat; this afternoon, withthe wind behind him all the way, Stearns had clipped a fifth of asecond from the former time, to the delight of the shivering audience,who had cheered the announcement of the result loudly, glad to be ableto warm themselves with enthusiasm on any pretext.

  But if the north wind had been kind to the sprinters, the middle- andlong-distance men had derived no benefit from it; for while it aidedthem on the home-stretch, it held them back on the opposite side of thefield. The spectators had already begun to stream away toward collegewhen Myer at length succeeded in getting the last of the milers placedupon their marks. The two-mile event had been tame, with Conroy, '04,jogging over the line a good twenty yards ahead of the second man,and there was no reason to expect anything more exciting in the mile.Rindgely and Hooker were both on scratch and surely capable of beatingout any of the ambitious freshmen, who, with a leavening of otherclass men, were sprinkled around the turn as far as the 200 yards.To be sure, Rindgely and Hooker might fight it out, but it was moreprobable that they had already tossed a coin between themselves to seewho was to have first prize and who second. So the audience, by thistime pretty well chilled, went off in search of more comfortable placesthan Erskine Field; or at least most of them did; a handful joined thegroups of officials along the track, and jumped and stamped about in anattempt to get the blood back into toes and fingers.

  Clarke Mason was one of those electing to stay. Possibly the factthat he had had the forethought to stop in his room on his way to thefield and don a comfortable white sweater may have had something to dowith his decision. At least it is safe to say that the mere fact ofhis being managing editor of the Erskine Purple was not accountable,for the Purple had a small but assiduous corps of reporters in itsemployment, one of whom, looking very blue about the nose, Clarke spoketo on his way across to where Stearns, having got back into his streetclothes, was talking to Kernahan, the trainer.

  "Well, who's going to win this, Billy?" asked Clarke. (The tracktrainer was "Billy" to only a select few, and many a student, seekingto ingratiate himself with the little Irishman, had had his head almostsnapped off for too familiar use of that first name.) Kernahan lookedover the contestants and nodded to the men on scratch.

  "One of them," he answered.

  "Then you have no infant prodigies for this event in the freshmancandidates?"

  "I don't know of any. Two or three of them may turn out fast, but Iguess they can't hurry Hooker or Rindgely much."

  "Who's the chap you've got by himself over there on the turn?" askedStearns.

  "That's--I don't mind his name; he's a freshman from Hillton; he wantedmore handicap, but I couldn't give it to him, not with those legs ofhis. He's built for a runner, anyhow."

  "He surely is," answered Stearns, "as far as legs are concerned.But legs aren't everything. Hello! you haven't given that littleblack-haired sophomore much of a show; thirty yards won't help him muchin the mile."

  "Track, there!" cried a voice.

  The three moved back on to the turf, Kernahan, who was timer, pullingout his watch. The dozen or so milers who had been summoned from thetent had had their ranks increased by several others. Hooker andRindgely had the scratch to themselves, but the thirty yards held threemen scarcely less speedy, and from that point onward around the turnas far as the middle of the back-stretch the others were scatteredin little groups of twos and threes. Only the freshman with the longlegs was alone. He had been given a handicap of 120 yards, and wasjogging back and forth across the track with the bottom of his drabdressing-gown flapping around his slender ankles. Ahead of him in thegathering twilight six other runners, in two groups, were fidgetingabout in the cold. Across the field floated the command to get ready.He tossed his wrap aside, revealing a lithe figure of little abovemedium height with long legs in which the muscles played prettily as heleaned forward with outstretched arm. At the report of the pistol hesprang away with long easy strides that seemed to eat up the distance.At the beginning of the home-stretch he had caught up the nearest bunchof runners, and at the mark he was speeding close behind the foremostmen and taking the pace from the leader. It had cost him something togain the position, and to the watchers about the finish it seemed thathe was already spent.

  "Your long-legged freshman's done for, I guess," said Clarke.

  "Yes, he's too ambitious. Has a pretty stride, though, hasn't he,Billy?" Walter Stearns followed the freshman runner with his gaze whilehe began the turn. Kernahan too was watching him, and with somethinglike interest. But all he said was:

  "Stride's pretty good; feet drag a good deal, though."

  "Who's that closing up?" asked Stearns. "Oh, it's the sophomore chapwith the black hair. He's an idiot, that's what he is. Look! he'strying to pass Long-legs. There he goes! Long-legs has sense, anyhow.Sophomore's taken the lead, and look at the pace he's making! Long-legsis dropping back; none but a fool would try to keep up to that."

  They were at the turn now, and the gathering darkness made it difficultto determine who was who. So the watchers gave their attention tothe scratch-men and one or two stragglers who were bunched togetherhalf-way down the back-stretch. Rindgely and Hooker were closetogether, the latter putting his toes down squarely into the former'sprints. Both were running easily and with the consciousness of plentyof power in reserve. When the turn was begun they had gained slightlyon the others near them and were about 120 yards behind the firstbunch. The black-haired sophomore was still setting the pace when hecrossed the mark again. Behind him at short intervals sped four others,and last in the group came the freshman with the long legs. Thehalf-hundred spectators that remained were clustered close to the tracknear the finish and, in spite of chattering teeth, were displaying someenthusiasm. A junior named Harris who was running third was encouragedlustily, but most of the applause was reserved for the two cracks,Rindgely and Hooker; they were well known and well liked; besides, theywere pretty certain to win, and it is always satisfactory to back thevictor.

  "What's this, the third lap?" Clarke asked, thumping his bare handstogether. "Well, I'm going back; better come along, Walt. You'll freezehere. If we're going to have this sort of weather in October, I'd liketo know what's going to happen to us in December."

  "Well, I guess I'll go along," Stearns said. "It surely is cold, and weknow how this is going to end. There go Rindgely and Hooker now; watch'em overhaul the bunch. If you see Ames, Billy, tell him I said he wasto look me up to-night, will you?"

  "All right," answered the trainer. "But you'd better see this out;there's something in the way of a finish coming pretty quick."

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p; "Why, what's up?" asked the track-team captain, turning quickly toobserve the runners.

  "Well, I don't know for sure," answered Kernahan, cautiously, "but thescratch-men aren't going to get their mugs without a fight for them,I'm thinking."

  "Who's in the running?" Stearns asked, eagerly. Once more the first menwere coming down the home-stretch. But now the order was changed. Theblack-haired sophomore was not in sight, but in his place sped Hooker,an easy, confident smile on his face. On his heels was Rindgely. Thencame the junior, Harris, and beside him, fighting for the pole, was alittle plump senior. Behind this pair and about five yards distant wasthe long-legged freshman. His head was held well, but his breathing wasloud and tortured. Stearns looked each man over searchingly. Then heturned to the trainer.

  "Last lap! Last lap!" was the cry.

  "Say, Billy, you don't mean Harris?" shouted Stearns when he could makehimself heard.

  Kernahan shook his head.

  "Then who?"

  "Keep your eyes on Ware," said the trainer.

  "Ware? Who the dickens is Ware?" asked Stearns. But the trainer wasscattering the spectators from beside the finish, and so paid no heed.The stragglers were passing now and the crowd was speeding them alongwith announcements that the last lap had begun and with mildly ironicalinjunctions to "move up head" or "cut across the field." Then all eyeswere turned to the back-stretch, where the five leaders, survivors ofa field of some fifteen, were racing along, dim whitish forms in theevening twilight. Hooker was setting a hot pace now, and the gaps werelengthening. But as the last turn was reached the figures changed theirpositions; some one dropped back; some one else moved suddenly to thefront. But it was all a blur and the identity of the runners could beonly surmised.

  "That's Rindgely taking the lead, I guess," said Stearns. "That meansthat Hooker's to sprint the last fifty yards or so and get first. ButI'd like to know who Ware is. Do you know?"

  Clarke shook his head.

  "Search me," he answered. "Maybe it's the long-legged chap. He's stillin the bunch, I think."

  "Yes, but he was just about done up when the last lap was finished. Didyou notice? He was gasping. Where's Billy?"

  "Over there at the mark. He's holding a watch; if you speak to him nowhe'll jump down your throat. Here they come. Let's move over here wherewe can see."

  "Well, whoever's in the lead is making a mighty painful pace for thefinish of the mile," exclaimed the captain. "Seems to me he's 'wayahead, too!"

  "It isn't Rindgely," said Clarke, decisively. "It must be----"

  "Come on, Freshman!" cried a mighty voice at Clarke's elbow, and abig broad-shouldered youth crashed by, sending the editor of thePurple reeling on to the cinders, from where he was pulled back byStearns. Clarke glared around in search of the cause of his ignominiousperformance, and saw him standing, a whole head above the crowd, a fewpaces away at the edge of the track. He seemed to be quite unconsciousof Clarke's anger. Leaning out over the cinders, he was waving a bighand and bellowing in a voice that drowned all other cries:

  "Come on, Freshman! Dig your spurs in! _Whoo-ee!_"

  Clarke's anger gave way to excitement. Down the home-stretch came therunners, sprinting for the mark. Stearns was shouting unintelligiblethings at his side and apparently trying to climb his back in order tosee the finish. The throng was yelling for Hooker, for Rindgely, forHarris.

  And then, suddenly, comparative silence fell. Twenty yards away therunners became recognizable. The crowd stared in wonderment. Well inthe lead and increasing that lead with every long, perfect stride camean unknown, a youth with pale cheeks disked with crimson, a youthof medium height with lithe body and long legs that were working likeparts of machinery. Back of him ran Hooker; beyond, dim figures told ofa struggle between Rindgely and the junior for third place. It was thestentorian voice of the big fellow at the edge of the track that brokethe momentary silence of surprise.

  "Pull up, Freshman, it's all yours!" it shouted.

  Then confusion reigned. The little throng raced along the track towardthe finish. Hooker's friends urged him to win, while others applaudedthe unknown. And in a second it was all over, mile race and fallmeeting. A white-clad form sped across the finish six yards in thelead, tossed his arms in air, swerved to the left, and pitched blindlyinto the throng.

  A white-clad form sped across the finish.]

  "What's the matter with Seven?" shrieked a small youth at Stearns'selbow. The track-team captain turned.

  "Who was that fellow that won?" he demanded.

  "Ware," was the jubilant reply. "Ware, '07!"