Barbour Ralph Henry
On Your Mark! A Story of College Life and Athletics
CHAPTER I
THE WINNER OF THE MILE
“All out for the mile!”
Myer, clerk of the course, stuck his head inside the dressing-tent and bawled the command in a voice already made hoarse by his afternoon’s duties. In response a dozen or so fellows gathered their blankets or dressing-gowns about them and tumbled out into the dusk of a mid-October evening. Because of the fact that on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons the athletic field was required for the football contests it was necessary to hold the Fall Handicap Meeting on one of the other days of the week. This year it was on Friday, October 17th, and because the Erskine College faculty does not permit athletic contests of any sort to begin before four o’clock on any day save Saturday, the mile run, the last event on the program, was not reached until almost six o’clock; and in the middle of October in the latitude of Centerport it is almost dark at that time.
It was cold, too. A steady north wind blew down the home-stretch and made the waiting contestants dance nimbly about on their spiked shoes and rub their bare legs. That wind had helped the sprinters, hurdlers, and jumpers very considerably, since it had blown against their backs on the straightaway and the runway, enabling them to equal the Erskine record in two cases and break it in a third. It was Stearns, ’04, the track-team captain and crack sprinter who, starting from scratch, had performed the latter feat. Until to-day the Erskine record for the 220-yards dash had been twenty-two seconds flat; this afternoon, with the wind behind him all the way, Stearns had clipped a fifth of a second from the former time, to the delight of the shivering audience, who had cheered the announcement of the result loudly, glad to be able to warm themselves with enthusiasm on any pretext.
But if the north wind had been kind to the sprinters, the middle- and long-distance men had derived no benefit from it; for while it aided them on the home-stretch, it held them back on the opposite side of the field. The spectators had already begun to stream away toward college when Myer at length succeeded in getting the last of the milers placed upon their marks. The two-mile event had been tame, with Conroy, ’04, jogging over the line a good twenty yards ahead of the second man, and there was no reason to expect anything more exciting in the mile. Rindgely and Hooker were both on scratch and surely capable of beating out any of the ambitious freshmen, who, with a leavening of other class men, were sprinkled around the turn as far as the 200 yards. To be sure, Rindgely and Hooker might fight it out, but it was more probable that they had already tossed a coin between themselves to see who was to have first prize and who second. So the audience, by this time pretty well chilled, went off in search of more comfortable places than Erskine Field; or at least most of them did; a handful joined the groups of officials along the track, and jumped and stamped about in an attempt to get the blood back into toes and fingers.
Clarke Mason was one of those electing to stay. Possibly the fact that he had had the forethought to stop in his room on his way to the field and don a comfortable white sweater may have had something to do with his decision. At least it is safe to say that the mere fact of his being managing editor of the Erskine Purple was not accountable, for the Purple had a small but assiduous corps of reporters in its employment, one of whom, looking very blue about the nose, Clarke spoke to on his way across to where Stearns, having got back into his street clothes, was talking to Kernahan, the trainer.
“Well, who’s going to win this, Billy?” asked Clarke. (The track trainer was “Billy” to only a select few, and many a student, seeking to ingratiate himself with the little Irishman, had had his head almost snapped off for too familiar use of that first name.) Kernahan looked over the contestants and nodded to the men on scratch.
“One of them,” he answered.
“Then you have no infant prodigies for this event in the freshman candidates?”
“I don’t know of any. Two or three of them may turn out fast, but I guess they can’t hurry Hooker or Rindgely much.”
“Who’s the chap you’ve got by himself over there on the turn?” asked Stearns.
“That’s – I don’t mind his name; he’s a freshman from Hillton; he wanted more handicap, but I couldn’t give it to him, not with those legs of his. He’s built for a runner, anyhow.”
“He surely is,” answered Stearns, “as far as legs are concerned. But legs aren’t everything. Hello! you haven’t given that little black-haired sophomore much of a show; thirty yards won’t help him much in the mile.”
“Track, there!” cried a voice.
The three moved back on to the turf, Kernahan, who was timer, pulling out his watch. The dozen or so milers who had been summoned from the tent had had their ranks increased by several others. Hooker and Rindgely had the scratch to themselves, but the thirty yards held three men scarcely less speedy, and from that point onward around the turn as far as the middle of the back-stretch the others were scattered in little groups of twos and threes. Only the freshman with the long legs was alone. He had been given a handicap of 120 yards, and was jogging back and forth across the track with the bottom of his drab dressing-gown flapping around his slender ankles. Ahead of him in the gathering twilight six other runners, in two groups, were fidgeting about in the cold. Across the field floated the command to get ready. He tossed his wrap aside, revealing a lithe figure of little above medium height with long legs in which the muscles played prettily as he leaned forward with outstretched arm. At the report of the pistol he sprang away with long easy strides that seemed to eat up the distance. At the beginning of the home-stretch he had caught up the nearest bunch of runners, and at the mark he was speeding close behind the foremost men and taking the pace from the leader. It had cost him something to gain the position, and to the watchers about the finish it seemed that he was already spent.
“Your long-legged freshman’s done for, I guess,” said Clarke.
“Yes, he’s too ambitious. Has a pretty stride, though, hasn’t he, Billy?” Walter Stearns followed the freshman runner with his gaze while he began the turn. Kernahan too was watching him, and with something like interest. But all he said was:
“Stride’s pretty good; feet drag a good deal, though.”
“Who’s that closing up?” asked Stearns. “Oh, it’s the sophomore chap with the black hair. He’s an idiot, that’s what he is. Look! he’s trying to pass Long-legs. There he goes! Long-legs has sense, anyhow. Sophomore’s taken the lead, and look at the pace he’s making! Long-legs is dropping back; none but a fool would try to keep up to that.”
They were at the turn now, and the gathering darkness made it difficult to determine who was who. So the watchers gave their attention to the scratch-men and one or two stragglers who were bunched together half-way down the back-stretch. Rindgely and Hooker were close together, the latter putting his toes down squarely into the former’s prints. Both were running easily and with the consciousness of plenty of power in reserve. When the turn was begun they had gained slightly on the others near them and were about 120 yards behind the first bunch. The black-haired sophomore was still setting the pace when he crossed the mark again. Behind him at short intervals sped four others, and last in the group came the freshman with the long legs. The half-hundred spectators that remained were clustered close to the track near the finish and, in spite of chattering teeth, were displaying some enthusiasm. A junior named Harris who was running third was encouraged lustily, but most of the applause was reserved for the two cracks, Rindgely and Hooker; they were well known and well liked; besides, they were pretty certain to win, and it is always satisfactory to back the victor.
“What’s this, the third lap?” Clarke asked, thumping his bare hands together. “Well, I’m going back; better come along, Walt. You’ll freeze here. If we’re going to have this sort of weather in October, I’d like to know what’s going to happen to us in December.”
“Well, I guess I’ll go along,” Stearns said. “It surely is cold, and we know how this is going to end. There go Rindgely and Hooker now; watch ’em overhaul the bunch. If you see Ames, Billy, tell him I said he was to look me up to-night, will you?”
“All right,” answered the trainer. “But you’d better see this out; there’s something in the way of a finish coming pretty quick.”
“Why, what’s up?” asked the track-team captain, turning quickly to observe the runners.
“Well, I don’t know for sure,” answered Kernahan, cautiously, “but the scratch-men aren’t going to get their mugs without a fight for them, I’m thinking.”
“Who’s in the running?” Stearns asked, eagerly. Once more the first men were coming down the home-stretch. But now the order was changed. The black-haired sophomore was not in sight, but in his place sped Hooker, an easy, confident smile on his face. On his heels was Rindgely. Then came the junior, Harris, and beside him, fighting for the pole, was a little plump senior. Behind this pair and about five yards distant was the long-legged freshman. His head was held well, but his breathing was loud and tortured. Stearns looked each man over searchingly. Then he turned to the trainer.
“Last lap! Last lap!” was the cry.
“Say, Billy, you don’t mean Harris?” shouted Stearns when he could make himself heard.
Kernahan shook his head.
“Then who?”
“Keep your eyes on Ware,” said the trainer.
“Ware? Who the dickens is Ware?” asked Stearns. But the trainer was scattering the spectators from beside the finish, and so paid no heed. The stragglers were passing now and the crowd was speeding them along with announcements that the last lap had begun and with mildly ironical injunctions to “move up head” or “cut across the field.” Then all eyes were turned to the back-stretch, where the five leaders, survivors of a field of some fifteen, were racing along, dim whitish forms in the evening twilight. Hooker was setting a hot pace now, and the gaps were lengthening. But as the last turn was reached the figures changed their positions; some one dropped back; some one else moved suddenly to the front. But it was all a blur and the identity of the runners could be only surmised.
“That’s Rindgely taking the lead, I guess,” said Stearns. “That means that Hooker’s to sprint the last fifty yards or so and get first. But I’d like to know who Ware is. Do you know?”
Clarke shook his head.
“Search me,” he answered. “Maybe it’s the long-legged chap. He’s still in the bunch, I think.”
“Yes, but he was just about done up when the last lap was finished. Did you notice? He was gasping. Where’s Billy?”
“Over there at the mark. He’s holding a watch; if you speak to him now he’ll jump down your throat. Here they come. Let’s move over here where we can see.”
“Well, whoever’s in the lead is making a mighty painful pace for the finish of the mile,” exclaimed the captain. “Seems to me he’s ’way ahead, too!”
“It isn’t Rindgely,” said Clarke, decisively. “It must be – ”
“Come on, Freshman!” cried a mighty voice at Clarke’s elbow, and a big broad-shouldered youth crashed by, sending the editor of the Purple reeling on to the cinders, from where he was pulled back by Stearns. Clarke glared around in search of the cause of his ignominious performance, and saw him standing, a whole head above the crowd, a few paces away at the edge of the track. He seemed to be quite unconscious of Clarke’s anger. Leaning out over the cinders, he was waving a big hand and bellowing in a voice that drowned all other cries:
“Come on, Freshman! Dig your spurs in! Whoo-ee!”
Clarke’s anger gave way to excitement. Down the home-stretch came the runners, sprinting for the mark. Stearns was shouting unintelligible things at his side and apparently trying to climb his back in order to see the finish. The throng was yelling for Hooker, for Rindgely, for Harris.
And then, suddenly, comparative silence fell. Twenty yards away the runners became recognizable. The crowd stared in wonderment. Well in the lead and increasing that lead with every long, perfect stride came an unknown, a youth with pale cheeks disked with crimson, a youth of medium height with lithe body and long legs that were working like parts of machinery. Back of him ran Hooker; beyond, dim figures told of a struggle between Rindgely and the junior for third place. It was the stentorian voice of the big fellow at the edge of the track that broke the momentary silence of surprise.
“Pull up, Freshman, it’s all yours!” it shouted.
Then confusion reigned. The little throng raced along the track toward the finish. Hooker’s friends urged him to win, while others applauded the unknown. And in a second it was all over, mile race and fall meeting. A white-clad form sped across the finish six yards in the lead, tossed his arms in air, swerved to the left, and pitched blindly into the throng.
“What’s the matter with Seven?” shrieked a small youth at Stearns’s elbow. The track-team captain turned.
“Who was that fellow that won?” he demanded.
“Ware,” was the jubilant reply. “Ware, ’07!”
CHAPTER II
A VISITING CARD
When Allan Ware recovered enough to take an interest in things he found himself lying in the dressing-tent with some one – it afterward proved to be Harris – striving to draw a coat from under him. No one was paying any special attention to him, and the tent was filled with the hard breathing of the runners, who were now only intent upon getting into their clothes. Allan took a deep breath and obligingly rolled over so that Harris could have his coat. Then he sat up.
He had not fainted at the end of the race; it is very seldom that a runner loses consciousness, no matter how hard or prolonged the struggle has been. The collapse is produced by oppression of the chest, less frequently of the heart in particular, and the consequent difficulty of breathing is the most painful feature of it. Allan had been dimly aware from the moment he pitched into the throng until now of what had passed, but his interest in events had been slight; he knew that arms had reached out and saved him from falling and that some one – a very strong some one, evidently – had picked him up like a feather and carried him the short distance to the tent. Allan wondered, now that he could breathe again without exertion, who the fellow had been.
Every one was intent upon dressing and no one looked as though expecting thanks. Rindgely, still blowing like a porpoise, was balancing himself on one leg and trying to thrust the other into his trousers, while he explained to Hooker that the track was like mush and no one should be expected to run on it. Hooker, looking amused, grunted as he pulled his shirt over his head. Allan scrambled to his feet and began to dress. He couldn’t help wondering what the others thought of his victory; it seemed rather important to him, but he had never won a race before, although he had taken part in a good many, and so it probably appeared more wonderful than it really was. The trainer stuck his head in at the door.
“Hurry up, now,” he commanded. “Get up to the gym, and don’t be afraid of the water when you get there.”
This familiar formula met with the usual groans and hoots, and Kernahan grinned about the tent. Starting to withdraw his bullet-shaped head with its scant adornment of carroty hair, the trainer’s eyes fell on Allan. He picked his way over the tangle of legs.
“Well, are you done up?” he asked. Allan shook his head.
“That’s the boy, then!” continued Billy, heartily. “You’d better come out Monday and we’ll see what you can do. Did you ever run much?”
“Some,” answered Allan, “at school.”
“Well, you see me Monday.”
When the trainer had gone, Hooker called across:
“Say, Ware, you’re done for now.”
“How’s that?” asked Allan.
“Why, when Billy takes a fancy to you, he just merely works you to death. You weigh when you get over to gym and then weigh again, say, three weeks from now. You won’t know yourself.”
A laugh went up. Rindgely chimed in with:
“You’ll find your work different from winning a mile with a couple of hundred yards handicap.”
Allan had only had one hundred and twenty, but he didn’t think it worth while correcting Rindgely, who was evidently rather sore over his defeat. Harris unexpectedly took up for him.
“He didn’t have that much handicap, Larry; and if he had, it wouldn’t have made any difference to you, you old ice-wagon. What was the matter with you, anyhow?”
Rindgely entered into elaborate explanations, which concerned the state of the track, the injustice of the handicapping, and many other things, and Harris laughed them to scorn.
“Oh, you’re just lazy,” he jibed. “Your name’s Lazy Larry.”
A howl of delight went up, and Allan looked to see Rindgely become angry. But, after a moment of indecision, he added his chuckle to the general hilarity. Allan turned to Harris.
“I was rather done up after the run,” he said, “and some fellow must have lugged me over here. Did you happen to see who he was?”
“Yes; one of your class, a whopping big fellow named Burley. Know him, don’t you?”
Allan shook his head thoughtfully.
“Well, you will when you see him.”
Harris picked up his togs and hurried off. Allan would have liked to walk back with him to the gym, but he thought the junior might think him “fresh” if he offered his company, and so he started back alone. It was almost dark now, and the lights in the college yard and in the village were twinkling brightly when he reached the corner of Poplar Street and turned down that elm-roofed thoroughfare toward his room. Poplar Street ends at Main Street in a little triangular grass-grown space known as College Park, and Allan’s room was in the rambling corner house that faces the park and trails its length along Main Street. Allan thought his address sounded rather well: “1 College Park” had an aristocratic sound that pleased him. And since he had been unable to secure accommodations in one of the dormitories, he considered himself lucky to have found such comfortable quarters as Mrs. Purdy’s house afforded.
His room was large, with two windows in front reaching to the floor and four others arranged in couples along the side, and affording a clear view of the college yard, from McLean Hall to the library. The fact that former denizens had left comfortable window-seats at each side casement was a never-failing source of satisfaction to the new occupant of what the landlady called the “parlor study.” In Allan’s case, it was study and bedroom too. Next year Allan meant to room in the Yard, and for the present he was very well satisfied.
His occupancy of less than a month had not staled the pleasure derived from knowing himself sole owner of all the apartment’s array of brand-new furniture, carpeting, and draperies. To-night, after he had lighted all four of the burners in the gilded chandelier above the table, he paused with the charred match in hand and looked about him with satisfaction.
The carpet was beautifully crimson, the draperies at the windows were equally resplendent, if more variegated in hue, the big study-table shone richly and reflected the light in its polished top, and the more familiar objects on the mantel and on the dark walls, accumulations of his school years, seemed to return his gaze with friendly interest. To-night, with the knowledge of his victory on the track adding new glamour to the scene, it seemed to Allan that his first year of college life was destined to be very happy and splendid.
He stayed only long enough to change collar and cuffs, and then, with a boy’s cheerful disregard of economy, left the four lights flaring and hurried across Main Street to Brown Hall and dinner.
The afternoon’s work had put a sharp edge on his appetite, and, having nodded to one or two acquaintances, he lost no time in addressing himself to the agreeable task of causing the total disappearance of a plate of soup. His preoccupation gives us an excellent opportunity to make a critical survey of him without laying ourselves open to the charge of impoliteness.
Allan Ware was eighteen years old, a straight, lithe lad, with rather rebellious brown hair and a face still showing the summer’s tan. His features were not perfect by any means, but they were all good, and if you would not have thought of calling the face handsome, you would nevertheless have liked it on the instant. There was a clearness and steadiness about the brown eyes, a gentleness about the mouth, and a firmness about the chin which all combined to render the countenance attractive and singularly wholesome. It was a face with which one would never think of associating meanness. And yet to jump to the conclusion that Allan had never done a mean act would have been rash; he was only an average boy, and as human as any of them.
Allan had come up to Erskine from Hillton without heralding; he was not a star football player, a brilliant baseball man, nor a famous athlete; he had always run in the distances at the preparatory school principally because he liked running and not because he believed himself cut out for a record breaker. His afternoon’s performance had been as much of a surprise to him as to any. At Hillton he had been rather popular among his set, but he had never attempted to become a leader. His classmates had gone to other colleges – many to Harvard and Yale, a few to Columbia and Princeton, only one to Erskine. Allan had chosen the latter college to please his mother; his own inclinations had been toward Yale, for Allan had lived all his life in New Haven, and was blue all through.
But Allan’s grandfather had gone to Erskine – his name was one of those engraved on the twin tablets in the chapel transept, tablets sacred to the memories of those sons of Erskine who had given their lives in the struggle for the preservation of the Union – and Allan’s father had gone there, too. Allan couldn’t remember very much about his father – the latter had died when the boy was ten years old – but he sympathized with his mother’s wish that he also should receive his education under the elms of Centerport.
His family was not any too well supplied with wealth, but his mother’s tastes were simple and her wants few, and there had always been enough money forthcoming for the needs of his sister Dorothy, two years his junior, and for himself. If there had been any sacrifices at home, he had never known of them. At Hillton he had had about everything he wanted – his tastes were never extravagant – and the subject of money had never occupied his thoughts. At eighteen, if one is normal, there are heaps of things far more interesting than money. One of them is dinner.
Allan was much interested in dinner to-night. He even found it necessary to indulge in a couple of “extras,” in order to satisfy a very healthy appetite. For these he signed with an impressive flourish. When the last spoonful of ice-cream had disappeared he pushed back his chair and went out. In the coat-room he found a dark-complexioned and heavily built youth in the act of drawing on a pair of overshoes.
“Couldn’t find my boots,” explained Hal Smiths, “so I put these over my slippers. Wait a minute and I’ll go along.”
They left the hall together and walked briskly toward Main Street. Allan and Hal Smiths had never been particularly intimate at Hillton, but as they were the only two fellows from that school in the freshman class, they had naturally enough felt drawn toward each other since they had reached Erskine. During the last week, however, Hal had been making friends fast, and as a consequence Allan had seen less of him. Hal had quite a reputation, gained during his last year at Hillton, as a full-back, and he was generally conceded to be certain of making the freshman football team, if not the varsity second. To-night Hal was full of football matters, and Allan let him talk on uninterruptedly until they had reached the corner. There:
“Come on down and play some pool,” suggested Hal.
But Allan shook his head. He liked pool, but with a condition in mathematics to work off it behooved him to do some studying.
“I’ll play some other night,” he said. And then: “Say, Hal,” he asked, “do you know a chap in our class named Burley?”
“Pete Burley? Yes; what about him?”
“Oh, nothing. What’s he like?”
“Like an elephant,” answered Hal, disgustedly. “A big brute of a chap from Texas or Montana or somewhere out that way.” Hal’s ideas of the West were rather vague. “Met him the other day; struck me as a big idiot. Well, see you to-morrow.”
Hal swung off down Main Street and Allan turned toward his room, feeling quite virtuous for that he had resisted temptation in the shape of pool and was going home to toil. When he opened his door a sheet of paper torn from a blue-book fluttered to the floor. There was a pin in it and it had evidently been impaled on the door. Allan held it to the light and saw in big round, boyish characters the inscription:
