Chapter IV: Part 4

I sat in the back room for at least a half-hour longer, and saw Black drink three more glasses of different flavors, chosen with special reference to their baleful effects; and so pleasant and jolly was Kitty, and so happy was Black, that I am sure she could have substituted a dose of rhubarb without his notice.

It was after ten o'clock when Kitty put on her hat, and I afterward learned that she talked a full hour longer with him at her gate, an unheard-of thing for Kitty, who was particularly careful of gossip, and it was midnight when he rolled into bed.

He must have had the digestion of an ostrich not to have been immediately and positively ill; but he was not, and barring a little lack of color, he gave no indication of his previous night's extraordinary training, when he went to the mark for the mile.

It had been a mighty busy day for me; the boys were young, some of them had never been contestants before, and they were nervous and uncertain. I got through the morning as best I could, giving advice here, answering a question there, telling some little fellow with a white face that there was no doubt of his winning, and another, who was over-confident, that he had no chance unless he followed instructions to the dot.

Dinner over (for at our boarding-house we dined at noon) I started for the "grounds," which were over on the other side of the little town. The wide street was well dotted with carriages, and the sidewalks crowded with townspeople, country folk, and a liberal sprinkling of the supporters of the rival academy. Most of the mill-hands were out, and the rattle of the looms was subdued, half of them being silent.

I threaded my way through the mob as best I could, for, every few feet, some one would buttonhole me to ask a fool question. Then again, did you ever notice how much harder it is to work your way through a crowd of country people than one of equal density in the city? There is a sluggishness and inertness very different from the quick movements of those whose feet are accustomed to tread city paves.

However, when I got beyond the shopping quarter, where the dwelling-houses began, the streets were free enough, and I crossed over to the south side, the day being warm, and the shade of the elms grateful. I was passing Holden's store, when Kitty appeared in the doorway, as if by accident, and with a very pretty look of mingled surprise and pleasure. She looked as if she had just arrived from Arcadia, or had stepped out of a Dresden dish, with her fresh muslin figured with little sprays of flowers, a big hat on her soft brown hair, and a parasol in her hand which displayed the academy color.

Her cheeks were bright, and grew a shade brighter as she asked, "Please, Mr. Brown, may I walk along with you?" Receiving my very hearty assent she tripped down the steps and across the street, taking special pains to save the figured muslin from the dust of the street. I think I said that Kitty's ankles were irreproachable.

Although it was very evident Kitty had been to some pains to see me, I found her very silent and preoccupied. She had said not much more than a silly word or two about the weather, when we reached the Lee place, where she said she must leave me, as she had promised to stop for Sally and Kate. As she put her hand on the latch of the gate she gave me the first hint of what was burdening her mind by asking, "Are the boys all feeling well?"

I said, "Yes, as far as I know," and then to try her, "though Black looks a bit queer, for some unaccountable reason."

"That's too bad," answered Kitty, with considerable affectation of sorrow, as she swung the gate open; but I noticed a little widening of the mouth, and a tell-tale dimple in her cheek almost betrayed her. Not once did she raise her eyes to mine either, something very unusual with her, for she had the frankest glance possible.

I watched her as she mounted the steps and rang the bell, and then walked on beneath the tall elms, philosophizing over that most interesting subject, "a woman and her ways," something the masculine mind cannot understand, but likes to struggle with.

The track was in the centre of the "campus," an enclosure of several acres of soft green turf, fringed and fenced by its row of tall trees. Around the track the spectators were gathering, and the grand stand was beginning to fill. All the officials and most of the contestants were already inside the ropes, the former bustling around with their bright-colored badges flapping, and extremely busy doing nothing; the latter, in their spotless trunks and jerseys, with bare brown legs and arms, looking "sweet enough to kiss," so I heard a pretty little matron say on one of the lower seats. Indeed, I know few finer sights than a young fellow, clean-limbed and lithe, trained to perfection, with eyes bright, and face darkened by the sun, waiting in his running-togs, with a background of green grass, and overhead the cloudless sky.

As soon as I got among them, the boys flocked around me, and after a hearty word or two I sent the team off by the catcher's fence, a little beyond, for there were no dressing-rooms, and I wanted to know where to find them. Jack was looking "finer than silk," and Black not half bad, although a trifle dark under the eyes. I was not at all sure that even Kitty's dose was enough to stop him.

Now, I do not propose to say a word about any event but the "mile." This was the last event on the list, we were comfortable winners already, and everybody was speculating how badly Black would fracture the record; there seemed to be no doubt about his winning, and, unpopular as he was, it was with many admiring exclamations that he ran a few yards to limber up. His long legs moved like clock-work, and his stride was remarkable.

We had just lost the final heat of the "220," and when the starter's whistle blew for the "mile" I could see the faces brighten up, for it was confidently expected that Black and Harris would run first and second, and leave a pleasant taste in the mouth to take home to supper.

There were six starters, and when Jack took his place on the outside, he was the finest-looking boy of the lot. Not having grown so fast, he was more rounded and filled out than the others, though he carried not an ounce of useless tissue. His arms and legs were better developed, and his face was clean cut as a cameo.

Kitty sat directly on a line with the tape, on the top row of seats, between the Lee girls. One of them, I could see, was keeping a watchful eye on the west, where the thunder heads were gathering.

But Kitty did not see any clouds, not she. She did not care if the deluge came after this race; and what was a shower, or a wet gown? She was red and pale by turns, breathing hard, and had both elbows on the top rail behind her, as if to brace herself for the ordeal. Wonderfully attractive was she in this attitude of repressed excitement, and though the grand stand was full of pretty girls, dressed in their best bibs and tuckers, I saw none to compare with her.

When Jack glanced up at her, she leaned forward and waved her hand, giving him a look that brought the color to his cheeks. But when he turned, got on his mark, and put out his hands, his flush faded, the half smile disappeared, and in their place came as stern a look of resolution as I ever saw in a boy's face.

And yet I doubted he could win.

True, he was just the one to do a shade better in competition than in training, but Black was likely to do no worse (unless pulled back by the sodas), and with a strong five seconds to the good, it was a beautiful race to guess on.

"Marks! Set!" The bang of the pistol, with its little wreath of smoke rising in the still air, and they are off. "Crunch, crunch, crunch" sound the quick feet on the cinders, a stout fellow, not half trained, taking the lead, and bound to drop out before the "half," unless I am no judge. They disappear a second behind the catcher's fence, emerge again, swing round the turn, straighten out again, and the men are well trailed, as usual, at the lower turn. Down the stretch they come, and just before they pass the posts Black jumps into the lead, amid the applause of the grand stand. Where is Jack? Why, where he ought to be with the pace like this, and three-quarters more to run. He has followed my orders to the dot, starting off easily (one of the almost impossible things to teach a young runner), trailing behind the field, and he finishes the first quarter last of the six, and a full twenty yards behind Black, running strong and well, though not so showily as his rival.

I see poor little Kitty's face grow white and hopeless as they go by.

Round the track they swing again, two men dropping out at the lower turn, already run off their feet, and one of them the stout fellow, as I expected. Indeed, as they pass the posts the second time all have come back a bit to Jack but Black, and Kitty's face is touched by grim despair, for that dreadful twenty yards still stretches between the one she wishes to win and the one she tried to put out of the race.

On the third quarter Jack lets out a link, picking up one after another, until only Black leads him, and when they start on the last lap he is running strong and fairly fresh, only ten yards behind, and the rest trailed badly.

Kitty's face is the queerest mixture of hope and fear I ever saw.

Black runs with the confidence of repeated victories in trials, and attempts to open up the gap again; but Jack has a bit up his sleeve still, answers with a little spurt of his own, will not be denied, and is only a bare five yards to the bad as they straighten out for the last hundred yards.

Here Black glances over his shoulder, and I can see his look of surprise. Jack has never been so close up at this stage of the game. It is evident that both the boys are approaching "Queer Street," "Queer Street" with its pounding heart and panting lungs, its parched mouth, singing ears, and leaden feet. Both are game to the core, and it is now only a question of endurance. Here is the runner's purgatory, where the sins of the past are settled, and here it is that Kitty's ice-cream sodas take a hand in the sport.

What would Black give if he had not imbibed their awful sweetness?

Inch by inch Jack draws up on him, his jaw set, his eyes aflame, his stride shortening, but still quick and straight. Black's face is leaden, his eyes glassy, his long legs giving at the knees at every stride.

Down the stretch they come, the crowd on its feet, but too excited to yell, Kitty with her hand over one eye, and her handkerchief tight between her white teeth.

For twenty yards they run almost side by side, and then Jack pumps ahead and breaks the tape, a winner by a scant yard. Black follows over in a heap, staggers a step or two, and falls before any one can catch him.

Sick, was he? Well, rather!

He had a touch of colic that doubled him up like a grasshopper. He groaned and coughed, he writhed and twisted, like a lobster on the coals. I knew it was not a dangerous matter, and gave him little sympathy, extracting a half confession concerning his training escapade of the previous evening.

Kitty, the little Jezebel, blushed like a rose when Jack waved his hand at her, as he was carried off on the shoulders of some enthusiastic friends.

Little did he know how he came to win over a faster man; little did Black understand there had been a plot for his undoing; and unless she reads this story, Kitty will always think her secret is a secret to all the world.

Back in the mountains of North Carolina, where the air is like a tonic, free from all taint of river mist and swamp malaria, and medicined by the fragrance of pine and hemlock, lives Teddy Atherton.

His house is perched on a spur of the mountains, and can be seen with a good glass from Asheville on a clear day. It has green blinds, tall wooden pillars, and granite steps. It is the pattern that New England builders used to fancy fifty years ago or more, and looks a bit strange in its setting of mountain and forest. Here Teddy spends his time among his books, fishing and hunting, in the company of his dogs, or the society of an occasional friend, truant from business or profession.

For a few weeks only in midsummer he risks the dangers of our east winds, and is seen at the Somerset and Country Clubs, much to the gratification of a host of friends.

He has had me South with him a couple of times, and never goes back without inviting me to dine with him. I always accept, though the pleasure of his society is more than offset by painful recollections. We linger long at the table over my favorite madeira, and we talk of the old days, the old contests, and the old boys, grown now to be stout merchants, lawyers, and I know not what. Some of them have lads who will bring new honor to names already famous on track and field, and some, alas! have been beaten out by that famous runner and certain final winner, old Death himself.

Often, as I sit and watch Atherton across the table, there comes into my eyes, not at all accustomed to such a freak, so clear a hint of moisture, that nothing but a mighty volume of smoke saves me from detection.

He is a small man, five feet five or less, and not exceeding eight stone in weight. His closely shaven face is thin and brown, his eyes dark and full of fire, his mouth firm and sensitive. There is nothing of the despairing or helpless invalid about him; his shoulders are square, and his movements resolute; yet he knows, and I know, that his life hangs by a thread. I know whose fault it is, in part at least, that his days are numbered, that his chest is hollow, and that, despite his self-control, he cannot restrain every now and again that hacking cough.

I shall tell the story, not because I like to, but as a warning to those who are willing to make a winner, no matter what the risk or cost.

Late on an afternoon, just before the inter-collegiate games of 188-, there sat on the gymnasium steps a group of college sports, with heavy brows and serious minds.

Even the weather was dubious, for the wind had worked round into the east, the clouds were gathering, and the air was damp and dismal. What few men there were on the track wore sweaters, and one or two had pulled long trousers over their trunks to keep their legs warm. The elms had got their heads together, as if conspiring mischief, and we had talked ourselves pretty well out, with no good results.

We had that day given the team a serious "try out," and were fairly contented with its showing in all the events but the "half."

There was no question about it, Bates could not call the trick; that is, not with his present showing.

We all agreed that he was good enough, but he had no head at all. He ran his second quarter to the "queen's taste," and finished strong and well; but on his first lap he sogered like a Turk, and came in at least five seconds slow. He had no idea whatever of pace, was not a sprinter, and was easy for any opponent with a turn of speed, who would trail him round and pass him in the stretch.

We had told Sherman (who had no chance to win, and knew it) to run the first lap in fifty-nine, instructing Bates to stay with him. Bates stayed all right, but Sherman was as far off as the man he paced,--in the first trial running in sixty-three, which was as bad as ever; and in the second pulling him out to fifty-six, so that neither finished.

The question was, who should make pace for Bates.

There were, sprawling on the steps that night, beside myself, Griffith, Smith, "Doc," and of course Tom Furness, for Tom had missed few such conclaves in the last half-dozen years.

Now, the public knows pretty well who wins the events, but mighty little about the planning and contriving by which the athletic material of a college is developed and made the most of. Upon us five rested much of the responsibility for making winners of the team of 188-. With me it was a matter of business and professional standing; to the others, the glory of their college, and the personal satisfaction of having added to it. All of them were practical men, who had in days gone by carried their college colors, and Tom Furness had been a mighty good athlete, who had put a record where it stood untouched for a good five years. Tom was tall, fair, and sanguine. An optimist by nature, he never dreamed of anything but success, was a favorite with the graduates, while the college worshipped him. I never saw the man who could put heart into a losing team like Tom Furness.

Just below him sat "Doc" Peckham, dark and silent. He was short and brown bearded, the very opposite of Tom, and had a rather embarrassing way of puncturing Tom's pretty bubbles. He was not so well liked as Furness, but was after all fully as valuable an adviser. He had a good practice in the city, but managed, in some way, to leave it whenever he was needed. Griffith and Smith were men who, as a rule, agreed with the majority, and myself in particular; so they were quite as useful as if they had been perpetually inventing foolish plans.

We had been silent a full minute, which is not long for a crowd of college "gray-beards," when Tom Furness jumped to his feet with the air of a man who has made up his mind, expects opposition, but is still confident of the integrity of his position, and said, "Teddy Atherton's our man."

"Teddy Atherton be blowed," said "Doc," who sat on the bottom step, his knees under his chin, drawing inspiration from his pipe. "He's run nothing but the 'quarter' for the last three years, and while he shows a fraction slower than Allen and Waite in practice, has a better head, and I would not give a toss-up for the difference between them."

"That's it," said Furness; "it's Teddy's good head that we want. Now listen to me. We have three 'quarter milers' who finish under a blanket, and any one of them is about good enough to win. Allen has shown a shade the best time, and we certainly cannot pull him out, while Waite would sulk like a bear with a sore head if asked to make pace, and probably be worse than useless. Atherton, beside having better judgment, is a particularly unselfish chap, and if handled right will consent, and fill the bill exactly."

"Deuced hard on Atherton," said Smith; "he's trained faithfully, has a chance to win in the 'quarter,' and yet we ask him to sacrifice himself in the 'half' because Bates is a duffer and will not use his head."

We discussed the matter a while longer, and had barely arrived at an agreement, when who should come briskly from the gymnasium but Teddy himself. He jumped down the steps, and was hurrying away, with a joke at our serious faces, when I spoke up and said (for such uncomfortable commissions were usually assigned to me), "Wait a minute, Atherton, we want a word with you."

"All right, old man," he said, "but be quick about it, for I've a dinner waiting for me that will be cold after seven o'clock." He was fresh from his shower-bath and rub-down, and looked as if he had stepped out of a bandbox. We could guess where the dinner was, for Atherton was very serious about Mollie Kittredge; and whether Mollie smiled or not, Mollie's mamma was complacent enough, and did her best to give Teddy a clear track and no contestants. Mollie was a howling favorite, "blonde, bland, and beautiful," who, it was rumored, did not care to be won by a "walk-over," and would have liked Teddy better if he had been a bit more difficult.

Now, I believe it is best to go at once to the point with a disagreeable matter, so I said bluntly, "I'm sorry, Atherton, but we have decided to ask you to run in the 'half'; it is a late day to make the change, and it will, of course, give you no chance to win; but it seems to us the only thing to do under the circumstances."

The boy winced, looked at us keenly to see if we were serious, then grew grave and said, rather sarcastically, "Your reasons for selecting me in particular as the scape-goat are of course good and sufficient, and you will pardon me for asking what they are?"

I went over the matter with him in detail, assisted by Furness, giving all our reasons, doing my best to make the project as inviting as possible; and Atherton finally consented, as we expected. It was, however, a very serious face he carried off, and one very different from that which smiled upon us at the beginning. We were all mighty sorry for the boy, and I felt as if I had committed a petty theft, and deserved the penitentiary, or worse. I had only been the spokesman for the rest, and had racked my brains to think of some way to save Atherton from the sacrifice; but Tom was really unassailable in his position, and even "Doc" did not oppose him.

I watched the lithe figure as it disappeared around the corner of the fence, realizing how full of disappointment my message must have been, and was sorry enough about it.

Atherton had arrived at college without either athletic training or ambition. A student of the first rank, so that he was known at once where muscular ability is much more likely to obtain recognition than mental strength, it was not until his second year that I saw much of him.

He then took up running, not so much with a view of contesting, as to fill out his lungs and increase his strength. It was not long, however, before he began to show decided improvement, and steadily gaining, had run unplaced, but close up, in his junior year. He had brought himself out in this way without in the least losing rank as a scholar, and I knew it was his one remaining ambition to get a place in athletics, and win a point for the old college on this last competition to which he would be eligible. If he had been a musty bookworm I should not have cared so much, but he was a splendid fellow, of good family, and a great favorite of mine, because of his pluck and good nature.

He appeared next day on the track, as agreed, a little serious, but not at all disagreeable; which made me feel more guilty than ever. In fact, I tried to apologize, and for this received, as I deserved, a sharp answer, that the decision was doubtless correct, and there was no necessity for further talk.

He listened to my instructions carefully, took Bates along within a half second of the fifty-nine, and left him in the stretch to finish four seconds better than ever before. Teddy was badly used up, of course, for he was not at all accustomed to the distance, and when I gave him a shoulder to the gymnasium, he was as limp as possible. He took our congratulations with a half smile, and would not confess that he was much the worse for the effort.

Tom Furness was much elated, insisting there was no question but that we had made a change to the advantage of all but Teddy, and it was right that he should suffer for the good of the cause. It is wonderful with what complacency we look upon the sacrifice of others.

As I thought it over that night, I had serious doubts about Atherton's condition, and the next morning I told Furness just how badly he was used up; but I did not take a decided stand, as I should have done, and the reason was purely selfish and unworthy. I was, of course, anxious to win the cup; it meant much to me, and I decided to take the risk.

The day came round, particularly sultry and close. The sky was brassy, the sun a ball of fire, and what little wind there was felt like the breath of a furnace.

It was a day to break records, and to break a trainer's heart as well; for often a man who is right "on edge" will show up limp and lifeless under such conditions, going stale in a night.

I had changed rooms at the hotel so that the men might sleep with all the air possible, given them an early breakfast, and got them over to the grounds before the sun was very hot.

We settled ourselves in the dressing-rooms, and the men stripped at once for the sake of comfort and coolness. A beautiful sight it was. An athlete looks much like a city clerk with his clothes on, but stripped to the buff there is a mighty difference. No weak, skinny legs, no fat disfigured bodies, no bunched and rounded shoulders.

You may boast of your fine horses and beautiful women, but give me an athlete in perfect training, particularly if I have had the handling of him, and have seen the fat disappear and the strong, clean muscle take its place.

The boys are seated on the long benches or standing in front of the lockers. Here is the slender figure of a sprinter, not an ounce of superfluous flesh or unused muscle, the cords of his shapely legs standing out clear and firm through the satin skin. There is a shot-putter, stopping a moment to chaff with a friend, stripped to the waist, his shirt in his hand. See how the mighty muscles stretch across his breast and back! See the big, square neck, and that right arm and shoulder, round and firm and hard!

It is not men like the last that I worry about, for the heat will do nothing but good to an anatomy like this; but the thin and slender chaps, with not too much vitality at best, and trained close to the limit--these I look over closely and carefully. I was more anxious about Atherton than any other, and found him off in a corner by himself, near the window. Perhaps the most popular man on the team, he was not over jolly this morning, and the boys saw it, and left him alone. His clothes were already hung in his locker, in that particularly neat way that some of the boys might have copied to advantage. He had on his trunks and jersey, and was lacing his running-shoes.

I asked him how he felt. "All right," he said; but I knew better. The hot night had told on him, and he was a bit pale and tired-looking. I told him to get into his wrap, find a cool and comfortable place, and take it easy until he was wanted. He followed instructions, as usual, and I saw almost nothing of him until the "half" was called, late in the afternoon. As usual, we had pulled off some unexpected wins, and lost several "lead-pipe cinches." The latter, however, were far more numerous, and I was decidedly on the anxious seat. Indeed, as near as I could figure, unless Bates won the "half" we were out of it.

Of Sherman we expected nothing; he was put in to fill out the string, and because a man will sometimes surprise those best informed of his incapacity.

Bates we hoped would win, and Atherton was expected to run his first lap in fifty-nine cutting wind and setting pace, to keep on in the second lap at the same speed until he reached the stretch, where he was to drop out (probably dead beat), leaving Bates to run in and break the tape. There was little glory in this programme for Atherton, and I had seen his face lengthen out when Allen and Waite romped in, first and second in the "quarter." It was "dollars to doughnuts" he would have made a strong third or better, and I saw he thought so himself, although he said nothing.

We had just won a first and third in the high jump, and I was feeling a little better when the men were called for the "half." I met Teddy in the middle of the field, and walked along with him to the start. He was looking very white and serious; but I said nothing at all to hearten him, for I knew he was clear grit and did not want it.

I did tell him that the race was more in his hands than Bates', and that from those who knew he would receive all the credit of a win, if he brought Bates in first. He said not a word in answer, only nodded his head, threw me his wrap, and went to the mark.

As the numbers were being called, I had a chance to look around me. There was the usual crowd inside the ring, the officials, the reporters, and those infernal nuisances the men with a pull, who do nothing, and interfere with all who have duties to perform.

The grand stand was right in front of me, spread like the tail of a huge peacock, and a perfect riot of color, for every second person was a lady, and what better opportunity than this to wear what was loud and bright? As my eye wandered over the crowd, I began to pick out familiar faces, for I have a keen sight for a friend.

There was Jack Hart and Tom Finlay, two of my old boys, sitting together, one of them from Denver, and the other professor in a Maine college; there was Dr. Gorden a bit lower, and Fred Tillotson with his pretty wife; there was Charlie Thomas with a little fellow in a sweater, evidently a dead game sport already, and a chip of the old block, for his face is red with excitement, and his eyes like saucers with enthusiasm.

I was taking my eyes away to look at the men, when they fastened on a figure a few rows from the top. It was that of one of the most striking girls I have ever seen, as perfect a blonde as even Old England could show, and with a very British air of reserve, despite the excitement around her. She was a marvel,--tall and well-developed, groomed and gowned to the dot. I could see she was looking straight at Teddy in the calmest style imaginable, but still rather surprised that he did not return her glance.

But Teddy had for the moment quite forgotten her. He was bent over his mark, his eyes straight ahead, ready for the first sound of the pistol, for his instructions were to take the lead from the beginning.

There was a strapping field of a dozen or more, but most of the others were prepared to take the customary start for a "half"--easy away, and fast work when heart and lungs had worked up to it.

"Marks! Set!" the crack of the pistol, and Teddy shot out as if for a sprint, slowing immediately, however, when he had taken his place.

Bates pulled out of the ruck at the turn, and fell in behind him, following orders. Round the track they swung, stringing out, one and another coming up and going back as if on wires, but Teddy and Bates holding the lead. My watch showed fifty-eight and three-quarters as they finished the first lap, a beautiful performance on Teddy's part, though I had expected it, for he was a connoisseur on time, if I ever saw one.

There followed them over, and close up, a cadaverous-looking man from one of the minor colleges, whose style I did not like, but who was going very strong, and whom I might have thought dangerous had I not been told he never finished. Sherman was twenty-five yards back, in the rear of the lot, and running in a very hopeless fashion.

I was relieved to see how well Teddy did his work, and noticed the slight flush on his cheeks as he passed.

I could see that Mollie Kittredge too had a little added color in her cheeks, but in no other way did she show any particular interest in the race.

For the first half of the second lap our programme was followed out all right, Atherton still leading at a lively clip, Bates right at his heels, and the tall outsider barely holding his own.

Then the unexpected happened. Bates began to show signs of tiring, fell back inch by inch, and the tall outsider came up at the same rate. Just before the lower turn they got together, and there was a short struggle; but Bates was as arrant a cur as ever wore a shoe, and he yielded the place, though he had strength enough to run another lap, had he the heart to go with it.

Teddy was, perhaps, five yards to the good when he swung into the stretch, and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his college mate close up and ready to take up the running. Instead, he saw an unexpected contestant, coming fast, and Bates was full five yards behind, slowing, and evidently out of it.

Now Atherton was, of course, well-nigh spent; he had followed instructions to the dot, and was not expected to finish.

There was a half-second's hesitation and a look of fear; but as quick as he realized the conditions, the little fellow swung his face to the front and set his teeth with the evident determination of making a fight for the race.

A mighty cheer went up from the spectators, for Teddy had many friends, and the whole college knew under what circumstances he was running; but I doubt if he heard anything but the crunch, crunch, crunch of the swift feet behind him. I knew it was a hopeless task, for his opponent was fresh as paint, and full of running. Gradually his longer stride drew him up, but when he tried to pass, Teddy still had a word to say, and met him with the most stubborn resistance. He was almost gone, his face white as death, his eyes glazed, and he kept his speed only by sheer force of will.

Somehow, I know not how, for I could hardly have taken my eyes from the runners, I knew that Mollie Kittredge was on her feet with a look of horror in her face.

Down the stretch they came, the little fellow with the drawn cheeks, and his opponent tall and strong and confident. Side by side they came, neither gaining, until perhaps fifteen yards from the finish, when the big fellow shot by.

Teddy staggered on, but lurched forward, and fell, a few feet short of the line, just as the winner broke the tape.

He fell without an effort to save himself, plowing through the cinders with his white face. There was a convulsive struggle to crawl over, and then he lay still, dead to the world, with one hand stretched out toward the line.

The half-dozen who finished ran by the motionless figure, and I was over it a second after. Tom Furness was almost as soon as myself, and together we lifted and placed it on the soft turf inside the track. We were surrounded by a crowd of contestants and track officials, but a cry, followed by a commotion in the grand stand, drew their attention, and we were left alone.

So full of agony was the cry, that I looked up myself, and was just in time to see the statuesque Mollie throw up her hands and fall back in a dead faint. Yes, blondes have hearts, after all.

We were not much troubled by the crowd, for they thought it was only a man "run out," and that he would be all right in a minute or two, and walk off as well as ever.

Alas! I knew better; it was a bad case, and I could find little sign of life in the limp body. We made an effort to revive him, but Tom could not get a drop from his flask through the clenched teeth, and one side of the face was bleeding, where it had slid over the cinders. The crowd was coming back, the spectators were beginning to notice us, so I told Tom to take the legs, and I took the head and shoulders, and we started for the dressing-rooms.

A pathetically light weight was it, and I was heart-sick, for, though one hand was over the heart, I could feel no motion through the thin jersey. "Doc" joined us at the door, and I was never so pleased to see any one in my life, for I knew that he would do all that could be done, and we need not experiment with some one we did not know.

When we got into a quiet room we placed Teddy on a rubbing-couch, and "Doc" immediately applied the most powerful remedies to revive him. They were at first unsuccessful, but by hypodermic injections of strychnine and brandy, the wearied heart and lungs were at last induced to start feebly on their accustomed tasks.

We were standing by the couch, watching the hint of color grow in the boy's cheeks, when suddenly the limp figure made a convulsive effort (consciousness taking up the thread where it had been broken, a few feet short of the tape), and he almost lifted himself to his feet before we could catch him. As he fell back in our arms, there came to his lips the bright-red blood-spots, precursors of a fearful hemorrhage.

It was almost impossible for us to check it, for the boy was delirious, would not lie still, and kept saying in a determined way, "I will win! I must win!"

He would turn his head, and call, "Bates! Bates!" in a frenzy of fear and disappointment. "Bates, where are you? My God, where are you? I'm sure I followed orders, and did not come too fast."

Then he would find Bates, and say contentedly, "There you are, old man, close up; I'll drop out now, I'm almost gone; push out and win."

Suddenly he would discover it was the outsider, and would cry out with fevered lips, and try to break away from us and run.

Then he would lie still, but in his mind was going over the agony of the finish again and again. He would turn to me and say excitedly, "You told me I need not finish. I can't run the 'half,' and you know it. It's dark, and they have run off with the tape. I finished long ago, and still you make me run."

Sometimes he would drop his hands and say despairingly, "I cannot do it, I cannot reach the worsted; O God, I cannot!"

Then he would discover Tom, who was almost as crazy as Teddy himself, and had been utterly useless from the time the hemorrhage set in. He would say to Tom, "Don't look at me like that, old man; I know I lost the race, but I did my best, my very best, and ran clear out. Look at my cheek, where I fell; you must see I was dead beat." He would try to argue with Tom, who had not a word to say, except of sorrow and self-reproach. He would look at Tom, and say, "Perhaps you're right, and I'll not complain, but why did you tell me to set pace, if you meant to make me finish?" Or he would say over and over again, "I was not strong enough; I did the best I could; I did the best I could."

Indeed, he did not cease talking all the time we were with him, until he was given opiates and taken to the hospital.

Here he spent many weary weeks, and was only pulled through after the most persistent care. But though he got on his feet again, he did not fully recover, and even a long trip to the Bermudas did not get his lungs in shape. He spent some months in Southern California, and settled finally among the Carolina hills, the nearest point to his old New England home, where he could expect to prolong his days.

I have seen many gallant winners, many whose courage and determination made them such; but when I tell the story that comes closest to my heart, I tell of one a notch above them all. I tell of Teddy Atherton, of his last "half" which he _lost_.

There were three of us in my office at the gymnasium. It was late afternoon of a February day. The hail was beating against my windows, and a punching-bag was drumming the "devil's tattoo" in the next room. There were all sorts of sounds outside, from the clatter of pulley weights dropped on the floor to the steady tramp of the runner's feet on the track overhead, but in my room a Sabbath stillness reigned.

Fred Seever was perched on a chair in one corner ready dressed for departure, and N. P. Sawyer, familiarly known as "Shack," sat on the weighing scales clad only in trunks, jersey, and an air of melancholy. It would not have been a comfortable seat for most anatomies, and the metal work must have felt chilly; but Shack had eccentric tastes, and never occupied a chair if he could find anything else to hold him.

I had just remarked in the quietest manner possible, "It is pretty well settled that Seever does not run this year." This was the cause of Shack's melancholy and Seever's silence.

"Well, if that's the verdict," said Seever, with considerable heat for one so quiet, "it's mighty hard lines, and a blooming hothouse plant it makes of me. I've been planning the whole year to get back at the Dutchman, and now at the last moment you say I don't start."

"Yes," spoke up Shack, "you should get a glass case for the dear boy, and put him in it, labelled 'Rare Specimen,' 'A Runner too Good to Run.'" He followed up this ingenious suggestion by untangling his long legs, rising slowly to his feet, and suddenly throwing a stray boxing-glove which he had picked up from the floor, hitting the "Rare Specimen" a blow in the short ribs that brought forth an involuntary grunt. "By the way, Professor," he continued, "do you think it quite safe for a little chap like me to toy with a sixteen-pound shot? Mightn't I drop it on my precious toes some day?"

"I've told you my reasons plainly enough," I answered, looking up from my desk and laughing at big Shack in spite of myself. "You remember last year. Seever went into this same 'mile handicap,' running from scratch. There were thirty-odd entries, and he was blocked, elbowed, and pocketed all the way through, getting a toss from Kitson in the last lap that sent him rolling into a corner with skin enough off his knees to make parchment for his diploma."

"I wasn't hurt, though," argued Seever, "only sore for a few days."

"'Twas luck that saved you then," I answered; "suppose you'd broken a leg, as you might easily have done on that hardwood floor, where would we have been at Mott Haven, with not a man jack of you good for four-thirty?"

"Give it up," said Shack. "Did you notice that the same field, too, let the Dutchman through like a greased pig? Hartman had half a dozen club mates in the lot, and as many more were quite willing to do all within the law to keep a college man out of it."

"Well," continued I, "Fred Seever is neither a wrestler nor a football player. These indoor games are all right, and for the average man there is no better place to learn quickness than in a mob of runners swinging round the raised corners of a slippery board track. But Fred has had experience enough, and is sure to appear on the cinder-path with the warm spring days in good condition if left entirely to himself. In the second place, he is too slender to take any chances."

"Yes," interrupted Shack, "those pipe-stem legs are marked 'breakable.'"

I concluded with, "The verdict is that, unless I have some good reason to change my mind, Seever's name will certainly be scratched."

At this there was a dead silence. Shack looked at Seever questioningly, then shook his head, and began to whistle "Ben Bolt" in a particularly dismal manner.

When I found they had nothing more to say, I resumed my examination of the list of entries to the first big "Indoor Athletic Games" of the season. I had just received it from the "official handicapper," and was considerably interested to find what my men had been given. They figured in every handicap, and in the "forty-yard novice" there were no less than fourteen of them, nearly all Freshmen, with two or three who would show a turn of speed. There were a few I did not intend should run, among them Seever, for the reasons I had already given.

These games are a perfect godsend to a trainer, coming as they do at a time when it is very hard to keep the men up to their work. The gymnasium is indispensable in a country where from December to April the cinder-path is either hard with frost or white with snow. But when a man has done his fifteen minutes at the pulley weights for the hundredth consecutive afternoon, he finds the excitement of "One, two, three, four, five, six," begins to pall on him, and by the last of February even "practising starts" loses its charms. It is then the circuit of a billiard-table becomes the favorite track work, and the digestion of a good dinner the principal muscular exercise.

I had checked off about half the names, finding few surprises, when the quiet of my room was broken by the entrance of a dozen fellows who had just learned of the arrival of the list. Did you ever hear the work of that very conscientious gentleman the "official handicapper" discussed by a crowd of contestants? Of half a dozen men perhaps one is pleased and says so, two or three have no fault to find but do nevertheless grumble out of principle, and the remainder "kick like veteran mules," and blackguard in shameful fashion the man whose only sin has been to overrate their abilities.

"What's this?" cried Ferris, a high jumper, looking over my shoulder. "I get only four inches, and Bob here gets six. That's highway robbery, and I don't care who knows it. He did five-eight to my five-seven only yesterday."

"Here's little Larry with five yards in the 'forty,'" spoke up Shack, who had monopolized the view from my right side, his broad shoulders shutting off all the rest; "the infant won't do a thing to them, will he?"

"What do you get yourself?" inquired Turner, who was bigger than Shack, but not quite quick enough to get a place of vantage.

"That's what I ought to be looking for," answered Shack, "but I always think of others first. They'll put something of that kind on my tombstone. Where's the 'shot'?" He ran his big finger down the page, remarking meanwhile, "I gave Jones [the handicapper] a good cigar only last week, and told him that I had not been myself the whole winter." Shack said this with a deep sigh, as if he well knew he was threatened with an early decline. "I expect to find nothing less than the same old eight feet for yours truly." His finger suddenly stopped, as he said this, and then straightening himself with an energy that sent two or three men flying backward, he exclaimed: "Great Jupiter! Look at that! Only look at that! And 'twas a good cigar too. He gives me just four feet, the least of any of you, and Turner here, who tied me this afternoon, gets the eight instead." At this there was a big laugh at Shack, whose woes were a joke to all.

Down the list they went until all were informed, and then they gradually sifted out, leaving Seever and Shack still with me. I could not understand why they stayed, for they knew well enough that further argument would be useless; but I paid no attention to them, going on with my checking.

The "mile handicap" was almost the last event. I crossed out Seever's name, which figured alone at "scratch," saw that Hartman had his twenty-five yards, the same as last year, marked off Root at fifty and Murphy at seventy yards, and then suddenly discovered, just below, the names of G. Turner and N. P. Sawyer with the same allowances. To say I was surprised would but faintly express my feeling, as Turner was a shot and hammer man who had played football, weighed nearly one hundred and ninety pounds, and had never to my knowledge run a yard on a track in his life. N. P. Sawyer was the seldom used patronymic of Shack, who had resumed his seat on the scales in the corner, and was evidently by his air of expectancy waiting for an explosion. I had sent in neither name, and was utterly at sea regarding the whole affair.

"Well, Sawyer," said I, turning rather abruptly toward him, "what does this mean?"

"Simply this," replied Shack, very frankly, as if he had expected the question and had his answer ready,--"simply this, that I thought we would pay the devil in his own coin, and give Hartman and his fellow-pirates of the 'Rowing Club' a taste of their medicine; let the Dutchman carom against Turner and myself a few times, permit Kitson to enjoy the experience of a tumble like that he gave Fred last year, and carry the latter bit of 'rare porcelain' through the mob without getting chipped."

"A very pretty plan," I remarked sarcastically, "but why was I not consulted in the matter?"

"Simply because we were doubtful of your consent, and wished to get as far along as possible before we had our little talk with you."

"Of course," remarked Seever, "we knew you would have the final word to say, but we thought you would prefer not to have the plan yours, and to be able to say that you did not even send in the entries."

"That was certainly very thoughtful of you."

"Yes," interposed Shack, "there is a remote chance of a little 'shindy' when the 'Heavy Brigade' gets well started."

"If you and Turner are mixed up in it, I should think the chances considerably more than even," I remarked; "but why in the world did two ice-wagons like you and Turner go into it? You can neither of you run a mile in ten minutes."