Chapter D: Appleton and Company (2)

“Yes, but the team came East last Fall for a post-season game. You said you weren’t related to him, didn’t you?”

“I don’t think I said just that,” replied the fox. “I’d hardly dare to. As a matter of fact, our family has relations in the West, although I’ve never heard that any of them lived in Chicago.”

I didn’t want to give the snap away, so I shut up then, but I couldn’t help admiring the way he carried it off. Never batted an eyelash! Some boy, Harold!

* * * * *

They made him first choice quarter then and he was never headed all the rest of the season, although Kingsley and Ramsey tried their hardest to overhaul him, and he kept getting better and better right up to the Robinson game, running the team for all that was in it and never letting a game go by without pulling off a few fancy stunts on his own. I could see that there was a coolness between him and Jim Phelan, but it seemed to me that Peck was still unsuspecting that his secret was discovered. So I guess he often wondered why Jim had stopped giving him pointers and being chummy. Of course they were still friendly and all that, but Jim couldn’t forget that Harold had put one over on him. And so things stood when we faced the Robinson freshmen in the final game.

As the fellow said about the war, we had a good day for it: cold and snappy, with almost no wind. Robinson brought over a big bunch of rooters and a good many of our own old boys came up for the game. And there was a sprinkling of khaki, too, for some of the grads were in service; and even the Navy was represented by a Reserve lieutenant. He was a corking looking chap, and when I ran across him just after lunch he reminded me so much of Harold Peck that for a minute I thought it was Harold got up that way for a joke. But he was bigger than Harold, and a couple of years older, I guess, and when I’d had a second look at him the resemblance wasn’t so strong. Still, it was there, and when he stopped and asked me which was McLean Hall his voice sort of sounded like Harold’s. Anyway, he was a corking, clever-looking lad, and I got to wondering how one of those blue uniforms would look on yours truly.

I’m not going to bore you with the game in detail. It was some game, but you’ve watched many better ones. Robinson got the jump on us at the start and scored a goal from our twenty-eight yards. I guess we had stage fright or something, for we sure played like a lot of kids in that first period. Even Pete Rankin got temperamental and fell over his own feet time and again, and young Peck tried hard to show how not to play quarterback. But Robinson’s score was just what we needed, for in the second period we pulled ourselves together and inched along for the goal line and finally pushed Curtis over for a touchdown. We were pretty well started on the way to a second when time was called for the half. As Toots Hanscom had missed goal, the score was 6–3 when we crawled back to the gym. We thought we’d done pretty well until Old Rudy started at us. Then we realized that we weren’t much better than a gang of Huns. He certainly did take the skin off! According to him Robinson should never have scored and we should have had twenty-one points tucked away. At that, he wasn’t so far wrong, for we had surely pulled a lot of dub plays in that first fifteen minutes. Anyhow, when he’d got through with us we were ready to go back and bite holes in the Robbies!

* * * * *

The third quarter gave us another touchdown, and this time Toots booted it over. But Robinson wasn’t dead yet, and she put a scare into us when she sprang a new formation and began to circle our ends for six and eight yards at a try. Pete was put out of it and Gannet, who took his place, was pretty punk. We lost two or three other first-string men in that third period, and so when Robinson worked down to our fifteen-yard line we couldn’t stop her. We did smear her line attacks, but she heaved a forward and got away with it, and kicked the goal a minute later. That made the score 11 to 10, and the world didn’t look so bright for us. And then, when the last quarter was about five minutes old, Saunders, who was playing back with Peck, let a punt go over his head and they had us with our heels to the wall. Curtis punted on second down and the ball went crazy and slanted out at our forty-yard line. Robinson tried her kicks again and came back slowly. Pete Rankin put himself back in the game and that helped some. About that time when the enemy was near our twenty-five, Peck got a kick on the head and had to have time out. Old Rudy started Kingsley to warming up on the side line, but Peck, although sort of groggy, insisted on staying in, and Pete let him.

They edged along to our twenty and then struck a snag and that’s when I stopped taking much interest in events, for I was the snag. When I came around I was lying on a nice bank of hay, with every bone in my head aching, and Prentiss was playing my position. So what happened subsequently was seen by little Joe from afar. Robinson put another field goal over and added three points to her score and we saw the game going glimmering. There was still five minutes left, however, and an optimist next to me on the hay pile said we could do it yet. I didn’t think we could, but I liked to hear him rave.

The five minutes dwindled to four and then to three. We had the ball in the middle of the field and were trying every play in our bag of tricks. But our end runs didn’t get off, our forward passes were spoiled and we were plainly up against it. Young Peck’s voice got shriller and shriller and Pete’s hoarser and hoarser, and the rooters were making noises like a lot of frogs. And then the timekeeper said one minute and it looked as though there was nothing left but the shouting.

We still had the pigskin and had crossed the center line two plays back, and Pete and Peck were rubbing heads while the Robbies jeered. Then something broke loose, and after I’d got a good look at it I saw that it was Peck.

I don’t know how he got away, for it looked as if he had sort of pulled a miracle, but there he was, dodging and streaking with the mob at his heels and a quarter and a half laying for him up the field. The optimist guy almost broke his hand off pounding my sore shoulder and I let him pound, for the pain helped me yell. Pete and Trask trailed along behind Peck and it was Pete who dished the waiting halfback. After that Peck had a free field and it was only a question of his staying on his feet, for you could see that the kid was all in. He got to wobbling badly at about the fifteen yards and I thought sure a Robinson chap had him, but the Robbie wasn’t much better off and they finally went across, staggering, with Peck just out of reach, and toppled over the line together. Then bedlam broke loose.

I must have forgotten my bum ankle, for the next thing I knew I was down at the goal line with half the college, and the Naval Reserve lieutenant had Peck’s head on his knees and was telling Tracy, the trainer, what to do for him. Tracy sputtered indignantly and swashed his sponge and Toots missed another goal and the game was over. The crowd got some of the team but I was near the gate and made my getaway. And so did Peck, thanks to the lieutenant chap, and we were halfway to the gym before the fellows missed him. We fought them off then right up to the gym door and dodged inside, and Peck, who was all right now except for being short of breath, said: “Thanks, West. I want you to know my brother.”

“Your brother!” I gasped. The Navy chap laughed and shook hands.

“And proud of it,” he said. “The kid played good ball for a fellow who couldn’t make the team last year, didn’t he?”

“Couldn’t make――Say, what’s the idea?” I gibbered. “Didn’t he play quarter for Elm Park?”

“Why, no,” said the Navy guy, “that was me! Harold never played any to speak of until this fall. He tells me that a roommate of his taught him about all he knows. I want to meet that fellow!”

“Oh!” said I, still sort of dazed. “Well, I guess he will be mighty glad to meet you, too. You see, he got it into his head that your brother was the great Peck, and――――”

“But I never told him anything like that!” exclaimed Harold. “Why, I even pretended I’d never heard of you, Herb, for fear they might think I was――well, trading on your reputation, don’t you see! I don’t understand how Jim could have got that idea!”

“Oh, he gets crazy notions sometimes,” said I. “At that, though, he wasn’t so far off, because if you’re not a Great Peck you’re a mighty good eight quarts!”

Which wasn’t so poor for a fellow with half his teeth loose! Now was it?

TERRY COMES THROUGH

“You’re up next, Slim,” said Captain Fosdick, leaning forward to speak to Maple Park’s third baseman. “Get out there and let ’em think you’re alive.” Whittier hoisted himself from the bench and leisurely viewed the row of bats. Selecting two, he ambled out toward the plate. Guy Fosdick, or “Fos” as he was generally called, turned again to Joe Tait, frowning. Joe, a heavily-built, broad-shouldered boy of sixteen, chuckled.

“It’s no use, Fos,” he said. “You can’t put pep into Slim.”

Fos’s frown melted into a smile. He was a good-looking chap at all times, but when he smiled he “had it all over Apollo and Adonis and all the rest of those Greek guys.” I am quoting Joe. Doubtless Fos’s smile had a good deal to do with his immense popularity at Maple Park School, a popularity that had aided him to various honors during his four years there.

“Sometimes I think he does it to rile me,” said Fos. “The day they had the explosion in the chemical laboratory Slim was out in front of Main Hall, and still going, before any of the rest of us were through the door! _Good boy, Archie!_” Browne had slammed a grounder between Linton’s shortstop and second baseman and filled the bags. “Two gone,” he said regretfully. “If Slim doesn’t do more than he’s been doing――――” His voice trailed off into silence as he gave his attention to the Linton High School pitcher.

“Did you see Wendell get down to third?” asked Joe admiringly. “That kid can certainly run!”

“Terry Wendell? Yes, he can,” agreed the captain thoughtfully. “Put Terry on base and he will get to third every time. He’s a fast one, all right. But you’ve got to stop right there, Joe.”

“How do you mean, stop?”

“Terry never comes through. He gets just so far and stops. I don’t know why. He got to first on an error, stole second nicely, reached third on Archie’s hit and I’ll bet you a red apple he will die there.”

“Oh, come, Fos, you’re too hard on the kid. He’s a pretty fair fielder and his hitting isn’t so rotten, and you say yourself that he’s fast on the bases.”

“Until he gets to third,” responded Fos. “Maybe next year Terry will make good, Joe, but he doesn’t deliver the goods yet. I’m sorry, because he’s a friend of yours――――”

“We room together.”

“But I’ve got to let him go. He’s had a fair trial all Spring, Joe, and the coach would have dropped him two weeks ago if I hadn’t put in my oar. He’s a nice kid, and he’s promising; but promises won’t win from Lacon two weeks from Saturday. If―――― What did I tell you?”

There was a chorus of triumph from the knot of Linton adherents behind third as their right fielder pulled down Slim Whittier’s long fly, and Captain Fosdick jumped up.

“But that wasn’t Terry’s fault,” protested Joe. “A fellow can’t score on a third out!”

“I didn’t say it was ever his fault,” replied Fos, pulling on his glove. “But it’s what always happens, Joe. He doesn’t come through. Call it hard luck if you like, but that’s the way it is. All out on the run, fellows!”

When the Linton center fielder had swung thrice at Morton’s delivery without connecting Joe arose from the substitute’s bench and strode off toward the track. He had no doubts as to the outcome of the game, for with but three innings to play it was unlikely that the visitors would overtake the home team’s lead of six runs, and he was due for a half-hour’s work with the shot. But he felt sorry about Terry. Terry was a nice kid and he was fond of him, and ever since he had known him, which meant since last September, Terry had tried and failed at half a dozen things. Terry had just failed of making the second football eleven, had almost but not quite finished fourth in the four-forty yards in the Fall Handicap Meet, had been beaten out by Walt Gordon for cover-point position on the second hockey team, had been passed over in the Debating Society election and now, just when, as Joe very well knew, Terry was beginning to congratulate himself on having made the school baseball team, Fate was about to deal him another blow. It was really mighty tough luck, Joe growled to himself; and if Fos had been anyone but Fos he would have suspected him of prejudice. But Terry Wendell’s troubles were forgotten when Joe had thrown off his wrap and had the twelve-pound shot cupped in his broad palm, and weren’t remembered again until, just before six, he pushed open the door of 12 Munsing.

Terry was pretending to study, but Joe knew very well from the discouraged look on his face that Fos had spoken and that Terry’s thoughts were far from the book before him. He looked up at Joe’s entry, murmured “Hello!” in a rather forlorn voice that tried hard to be cheerful and bent his head again.

“How’d the game come out?” asked Joe, banging the door with unnecessary violence.

“We won; twelve to eight.”

“Linton must have got a couple more runs over after I left,” said Joe. “How did you get along?”

“Oh, pretty punk, thanks. I got one hit, rather a scratch, and was forced out at third. I got as far as third again and Whittier flied to the Linton right fielder and left me there.”

“Hard luck! How about your fielding?”

“Three chances and got them.” There was silence for a moment. Joe nursed a foot on the window-seat and waited. At last: “I’m out of it, Joe,” said Terry with a fine affectation of indifference. “Fosdick told me after the game that they’d decided to get along without my valuable services.”

Joe pretended surprise. Terry cut short his expressions of sympathy, however. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I mean I ought to have known how it would be. I didn’t, though. I thought I’d really made good at something finally. I wrote home only last Sunday that I’d got on the nine. Well, I can sit back now, can’t I? There isn’t anything left to try for!”

“Pshaw, that’s no way to talk, Terry. There’s your track work, remember. You’re pretty sure to get your chance with the quarter-milers.”

“I’m going to quit that. I know what’ll happen. Either they’ll drop me the day before the Dual Meet or I’ll trail in in fifth place.”

“Quit nothing!” said Joe disgustedly. “You’re going to stick, kid, if I have to lug you out by the feet and larrup you around the track!” Terry smiled faintly at the idea.

“You won’t have to, Joe. I was only talking. I’ll keep on with the Track Team as long as they’ll have me. Maybe――――” He hesitated a moment and then went on doubtfully. “Maybe I can get Cramer to try me in the half, Joe. I have an idea I could run the half better than the four-forty. Anyway, I’ll stick. And I’ll try my hardest. There――there must be _something_ I can do!”

Terry Wendell was fifteen, a nice-looking, well-built boy, rather slender but by no means frail, with frank brown eyes, somewhat unruly hair of the same color and a healthy complexion. He had entered Maple Park School the preceding Fall, making the upper middle class. He was good at studies and was seldom in difficulties with the instructors in spite of the time he consumed in the pursuit of athletic honors. Of course entering the third year class had handicapped him somewhat and his circle of friends and acquaintances was far smaller than if he had joined the school as a junior, but he hadn’t done so badly, after all, for Joe Tait had kindly taken him in hand and become a sort of social sponsor for him. What friends Terry had were firm ones and, had he but known it, liked him none the less for the plucky way in which, having been turned down in one sport, he bobbed up undismayed for another. But Terry, not knowing that, suspected the fellows of secretly smiling at his failures, and had become a little sensitive, a trifle inclined to detect ridicule where none was meant. Which fact probably accounts for the falling-out with Walt Gordon the next day.

It was Sunday, and as perfect a day as the Spring had given. May was nearly over, the trees in the campus and on the long slope of Maple Hill were fully clothed in fresh green and the bluest of blue skies stretched overhead. Maple Hill, which rises back of the school, is crowned by a great granite ledge, from which one commands a view of many miles of smiling countryside. The Ledge is a favorite spot with the students and its seamed and crumbling surface is marked in many places with evidences of fires and, I regret to say, too often littered with such unlovely objects as empty pickle bottles, cracker boxes and the like. On this Sunday afternoon “Tolly” hailed the bottles with joy and, having collected five of them, advanced to the farther edge of the rock and hurled them gleefully far down into the tops of the trees. Tolly’s real name was Warren Tolliver, and he was only fourteen, and for the latter reason his performance with the pickle bottles was viewed leniently by the other four boys. Tolly’s youthfulness gave him privileges.

Ordinarily the party would have been a quartette; Joe, Terry, Hal Merrill and Tolly; but to-day they had happened on Walt Gordon and Walt had joined them. He was a heavily-built chap in appearance, but when he was in track togs you saw that the heaviness was mostly solid muscle and sinew. He was Maple Park’s crack miler and, beside, played a rather decent game at center field on the nine. He was respected for his athletic prowess, but beyond that was not very popular, for he thought a bit too highly of Walt Gordon and too little of anyone else. But none of his four companions really disliked him or had resented his attaching himself to their party. When he cared to, Walt could be very good company.

Stretched on the southern slope of the ledge, where sun and wind each had its way with them, the five boys found little to say at first. The climb had left them warm and a trifle out of breath. It was the irrepressible Tolly who started the conversational ball rolling. “Know something, fellows?” he demanded. Joe lazily denied any knowledge on any subject and begged enlightenment. “Well,” continued Tolly, “when I get through college――――”

“Ha!” grunted Hal. Tolly tossed a pebble at him and went on.

“When I get through college I’m coming back here and I’m going to build one of those aerial railways from the roof of Main Hall to this place. It’ll cost you fellows twenty-five cents apiece to get up here. No, maybe I’ll make it twenty-five for the round-trip.”

“I’ll walk before I pay a quarter,” said Walt.

“You won’t be allowed to, because I’ll buy up the hill and put a barbed wire fence around it. You’ll have to ride.”

“How are you going to run the thing, Tolly?” asked Joe. “Pull it up yourself?”

“Electricity. There’ll be two cars. Wouldn’t it be fine?”

“You’ll let your friends ride free, won’t you?” Terry inquired.

“Yes, but I shan’t have any then. It’ll cost too much.”

“All that doesn’t cause me a flutter,” said Hal. “By the time Tolly’s out of college I’ll be dead.”

“Don’t you believe it,” Joe chuckled. “It won’t take him two weeks to get through college――if he once gets in. It’ll be a case of ‘Howdy do, Mr. Tolliver. Goodby, Mr. Tolliver!’”

“Huh!” grunted Tolly. “That’s all you know about it, Joey. I can get in any college I like, and――――”

“Yes, but suppose they found you?” said Hal.

“I’m getting letters every day from all the big ones: Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Cornell――――”

“Vassar,” suggested Joe helpfully.

“That’s what comes of being a real ball-player,” concluded Tolly. “Everyone wants you.”

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

“Aw, dry up,” grumbled Tolly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s my lookout. Will you bet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fine, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fresh as a daisy, sir.”

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

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

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

“I guess so. Where?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.