CHAPTER X
[THE PENTATHLON]
Doctor Merrifield, the elderly, gray-haired principal of Hopevale, turned with a smile of satisfaction to his guest. "A record day, Mr. Graham," he said, "and a record crowd. I think we may mutually congratulate ourselves."
The head master of Clinton nodded in reply. "Indeed we may, Doctor," he answered. "Of course the fact that it's graduation week: has something to do with it, but even then, I have never seen a gathering like this, in the history of the schools."
There was good reason for their words. Mid-June had made its most graceful bow to the world. A warm sun shone down over Hopevale Oval; a cool breeze blew pleasantly across the field. The track itself had never looked so well. It had been rolled, scraped, re-rolled once more; the whitewashed lines had been neatly marked at start and finish; the lanes for the hundred freshly staked out. Altogether, the track keeper had done his work to perfection, and a man beaten in the Pentathlon, whatever other reason he might have given for his defeat, could scarcely have complained of the conditions under which he was competing.
Equally good were the arrangements on the field. The high-jump path was hard and smooth as a floor; a new cross bar was stretched across the standards; a dozen extra ones lay ready at hand, in case of accident to the one in use. The ring for the shot put was in first-class shape; two shots, one iron, one lead, lay close by. Three or four hammer rings were clearly marked on the smooth, closely-cropped green turf. The most critical old-timer who ever wore a shoe could not have found fault with the preparations for the meet.
And many a man, indeed, who had been famous in his day, sat in the rows of seats which surrounded the Oval, eager to see the final contest for the cup, whose possession meant so much to the school victorious in this hard and well-fought fight. Fathers, uncles, elder brothers, small boys looking forward to the day when they, in turn, would take their places in the family procession, and come to Clinton, Fenton or Hopevale, as the case might be; all were present in the stands. Nor was it, by any means, a gathering of men and boys alone. Mothers, aunts, sisters, most of whom knew little of athletics, and had but the haziest idea of all that was going forward, lent, none the less, a charm of bright dresses and brighter faces, to the scene. And though the games were held at Hopevale, it was no mere local crowd of spectators which had assembled to watch them. The colors of the home school were naturally enough in the ascendant, but train after train had brought its cheering followers of the two rival academies, and the red and black of Clinton, and the crimson of Fenton, vied with the Hopevale blue.
Doctor Merrifield looked across the track. "Here comes our friend Fenton," he observed, "and evidently in a hurry, too."
Mr. Fenton walked rapidly up to them, his face puzzled and anxious. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said. "I find myself involved in a most unaccountable mystery. I don't suppose either of you has heard any word of Randall, our entry in the Pentathlon?"
Both of his colleagues gazed at him in astonishment. "Are you serious?" said Mr. Graham, while the doctor said, "You don't mean to tell us he isn't here. Why, it only lacks five minutes to ten."
Mr. Fenton sighed. "I can't understand it," he said, "and I can't help being a little bit worried. I've notified the authorities, but haven't heard a single word of him since yesterday afternoon. It's a most extraordinary thing. And apart from my anxiety for Randall, it seems hard to say good-by to our chances for the cup. However, the fortunes of war--"
Mr. Graham interrupted him. "Why, we don't want anything like that to happen," he said, "we'll waive our rule, I'm sure. Won't we, Doctor? We can postpone the meet for a time."
Mr. Fenton made an eloquent gesture toward the crowded stands. "I couldn't ask it," he said decidedly. "You're very kind to suggest it, Graham, and I appreciate it. But if the positions were reversed, I shouldn't expect you to ask the favor of me. It would never do to interrupt the order of exercises, and disappoint a gathering of this size. It would be a reflection, it seems to me, on our ability to conduct our schools. No, I thank you, but, as I said before, it's the fortune of war. Your boys must fight it out between themselves. I suppose some day this will all be explained--"
An outburst of Hopevale cheers broke in on him. Dave Ellis, looking in the very top-notch of condition, was walking leisurely across the field. A moment later, Johnson's lithe figure emerged from the dressing-room, and Clinton applauded in their turn. And then, even as they stood listening to the tumult, they were aware of a growing confusion at the entrance to the field, out of which presently emerged two rather disheveled looking figures, making toward the locker building at a hurried pace. At the same instant broke forth a roar from the Fenton section, "Randall, Randall, Randall!" and Mr. Fenton, taking an abrupt leave of his associates, started across the field, as fast as his legs could carry him. "Thank Heaven," he muttered to himself, "nothing serious has happened to him. But what can the trouble have been?"
He found Randall hastily dressing. Dick looked up at him with what was meant for a smile. "Can't explain now, Mr. Fenton," he said hurriedly. "It wasn't my fault. I'm lucky to be here. If it hadn't been for McDonald and Joe, I shouldn't be. But I'll tell you the whole story later. I've got just time for my rub-down now."
For five minutes, McDonald's skilful hands worked over the stiffened muscles, and as Dick jogged across to the start, he felt that his speed and spring were in some measure returning. Yet the hundred yards was disappointing. Johnson ran first, and moved down the track like a race-horse, traveling in first-class form, and making the distance in ten and three-fifths. Ellis ran second, and did eleven flat. Dick, a little unnerved by all he had been through, made a false start--something most unusual for him--and was set back a yard. Then, in his anxiety not to commit the same fault a second time, he got away poorly, and finished in the slowest time of the three--eleven and one-fifth. It was excellent scoring, for a start, and Johnson was credited with eighty-three points, Ellis with seventy-five and Dick with seventy-one.
With the shot put, the lead changed. Johnson, considering his lighter weight, performed splendidly, making an even thirty-six feet. Dick found that his stiffness did not bother him nearly so much as it had done in the dash, and made his best put of the year, thirty-eight, nine. But Ellis surpassed himself, and on his last attempt, broke the league record, with a drive of forty-one, two. His seventy-two points loomed large, by the side of Dick's sixty and Johnson's forty-seven, and the score-board showed:
| Ellis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 147 |
| Randall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 131 |
| Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 130 |
Next, the high jump was called, and all three boys kept up the same good work. There was small reason, indeed, why they should not have been at their best. School spirit was rampant; it was to watch them that these cheering hundreds had crowded the field; every successful jump, from the lowest height of all, was applauded to the echo. Ellis, as was expected, was the first to fail, but he managed to clear five feet, two, and added fifty-four points to his score. Dick, a little handicapped by the strain of the preceding night, could feel that his muscles were not quite at their best, yet his long period of careful training had put him in good shape, and helped out by the excitement of the competition, he finally cleared five feet, eight. Johnson did an inch better, and only just displaced the bar at five feet, ten, scoring seventy-seven points to Dick's seventy-four. The three competitors were now practically tied, and volley after volley of cheers rang out across the field from every section of the crowd.
| Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 207 |
| Randall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 205 |
| Ellis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 201 |
The record was going to be broken, not by one man alone, but by all three. So much was evident, and the crowd awaited the hurdle race with the most eager expectancy. Dick ran first, and finished in seventeen and two-fifths; Ellis, his heavy build telling against him, in spite of his efforts, could do no better than eighteen, two, and then Johnson electrified the crowd by coming through, true and strong, in sixteen, four. His eighty-four points put him well in the lead, while Randall's seventy-three gave him a clear gain over Ellis, who, with fifty-eight, now brought up the rear.
| Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 289 |
| Randall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 278 |
| Ellis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 259 |
And yet, in spite of the score, Hopevale was jubilant. For the one remaining event was the hammer throw, where Ellis was supreme, and here they expected to see their champion wipe out his opponents' lead, and finish a winner, with plenty to spare.
Each contestant was allowed three throws, and on the first round it seemed as though the predictions of the home man's admirers were coming true. Johnson threw one hundred and twenty-two feet and seven inches; and then Ellis, taking his stand confidently inside the circle, made a beautiful effort of one hundred and fifty-nine feet. McDonald figured hastily in his score book, and came up to Randall. "Don't be scared, Dick," he said, "one hundred and forty-five feet, and you'll still be ahead of him. And that's only a practice throw for you now."
Dick nodded. And yet, although he kept his own counsel, he knew only too well that the worry and anxiety of his long night's captivity were at last beginning to make themselves felt. His head felt heavy; his legs weak; he doubted whether he could make the hundred and forty-five. And then, taking his turn, his worst fears were realized. He made a fair throw, indeed, staying well inside the circle, but there was little dash behind it, and when the scorer announced, "One hundred and thirty-eight eleven," Dick knew that Ellis was in the lead.
In the midst of the Hopevale cheering, Johnson took his second throw, and improved on his first trial by a couple of feet. McDonald shook his head. "He's out of it," he said. "A great little man, too, but not heavy enough for all-round work. It's you or Ellis, now, Dick. Johnson won't bother either of you for first."
Dick nodded. Ellis made ready for his second throw with the greatest care. There was little to criticize in his form. And backed by his great strength, the hammer seemed scarcely more than a toy in his hands. As the missile went hurtling through the air, the cheers redoubled. Even from the spectators' seats it was easy to see that he had bettered his previous try, and soon the scorer shouted, "One hundred and sixty-five feet, one inch."
McDonald whistled. "He's a good man with the weights," he admitted with reluctance; then figured again. "Dick," he said, "you'll have to get in one good one. You've got to fetch a hundred and fifty feet, if you're going to win. Don't stiffen up now. Keep cool, and think it's only practice. You've done it for me. You can do it now."
Dick walked forward, and picked up the hammer for his second try. Out from the grandstand came the Fenton cheer, and then, at the end, his name "Randall, Randall, Randall!" thrice repeated. Where other stimulants would have failed, this one was successful. Dick felt his muscles grow tense as steel. He thought of Putnam, and the race on the river. "Be game," he whispered to himself, under his breath, and stepped forward into the ring, his brain clear, his nerves under control. Once, twice, thrice, he swung the hammer around, his head, and then, with splendid speed, turned and let it go. Clearly, he had improved on his former throw. The measurers pulled the tape tight, and then the announcer called, "One hundred and forty-nine, three."
McDonald calculated hurriedly; then gave a little exclamation of astonishment. "A tie," he cried; "that puts you just even, and one more throw apiece. Three hundred and forty-seven points each. A tie; that's what it is."
Near Ellis' side stood a slender, dark young man, who had watched Dick's appearance on the field with an expression of utter amazement. Although the day was warm, he had worn, all through the games, a long, loose coat, of fashionable cut, and now he crowded closer to Ellis' side. "Pick it up, when I drop it, Dave," he whispered. "It's your only show. You can't beat one hundred and sixty-five without it."
A moment later he walked away. And Ellis, stooping, put his hand on a hammer apparently identical with the two which had been so carefully weighed and measured before the games had begun. He held it uncertainly, as if not overjoyed at his burden. Once he turned, and looked imploringly at the man who had spoken to him. The man frowned back at him savagely, and Ellis sighed, as if persuaded against his will.
And now Johnson made his last throw. He tried desperately, and improved his record to one hundred and thirty feet. But his chance was gone, and he knew it, taking his defeat gamely enough, with a smile and shrug of his shoulders. He had done his best; it was not good enough; that was all.
"Ellis; last try," called the clerk of the course. Ellis walked quickly forward, and got into position. Dick, watching him, seemed to see a new power and skill in the way in which his rival swung, and when he delivered the weight, Dick felt his heart sink like lead. Out, out, it sailed, as though it would never stop. Hopevale was cheering itself hoarse. It looked like a record throw. And finally the announcer, scarlet with excitement, cried, in the midst of the hush that followed his first words, "Mr. Ellis throws one hundred and seventy-three feet, eight and a quarter inches, a new record for the league."
Dick turned to McDonald, but McDonald was no longer at his side. He was striding away down the field. The man who brought in the hammer, after each throw, was just starting back with it, when a slight, dapper fellow accosted him. "I'll carry that in for you," he said pleasantly, "I'm going that way," and the man, thanking him, gladly enough relinquished his burden.
Face to face came the kind-hearted stranger and Duncan McDonald. McDonald reached out his hand. "I'll thank you for a look at that weapon," he said grimly.
The stranger looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?" he asked.
McDonald grasped the wire handle. "Just exactly what I say," he rejoined. "You're a wise guy, Alec, but you're up against it this time. Hand over now; I haven't forgotten old times."
The young man forced a smile, and then, as McDonald wrenched the hammer from his grasp, he turned and made off across the field, swearing fluently under his breath.
McDonald hurried back to where the judges were standing, arriving just as Dick was making ready for his last try. "One minute, gentlemen," he called; "I wish to protest Mr. Ellis' throw, and the hammer it was made with. I don't believe the hammer is full weight."
The chief judge looked indignant. "Mr. McDonald," he said, "this is most unusual. The hammers were carefully weighed before the competition began. And were found correct. In fact, both of them were a trifle overweight."
"But you didn't weigh this one," McDonald insisted. "This one has been rung in on you. I must ask you to weigh it, please."
Somewhat grudgingly, the judge complied; then started in astonishment. He was a partisan of Hopevale, but he was an honest man, and he knew his duty. "Mr. Announcer," he said quickly; "say at once, please, that there was a mistake in Mr. Ellis' last throw; that an accident to the hammer will necessitate giving him another trial." Then, turning to the officials, he added, "This is exceedingly unfortunate, gentlemen; this hammer weighs but ten pounds and three-quarters. Does any one know how it got here?"
No one answered, and Ellis stepped forward to take his last throw, this time with a hammer of correct weight. His face was troubled; his former confidence seemed lacking, and his try fell well short of one hundred and sixty feet. And then Dick came forward in his turn. The controversy over the light hammer had given him just the rest he needed; he made ready for his throw with the utmost coolness, and got away a high, clean try, that looked good all the way. There was the beginning of a cheer and then a hush, as the announcer called, "One hundred and fifty-two, five."
The cheering began again, yet the result was so close that every one waited breathlessly for the official posting of the score. A moment's delay, and then up it went.
| Randall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 350 |
| Ellis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 347 |
| Johnson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . | 334 |
And then came the avalanche of wildly cheering spectators. Putnam, Allen, Brewster and Lindsay were first at Dick's side, and it was on their shoulders that he was borne across the field, a little overcome, now that the strain was over, with everything appearing a trifle dream-like and unreal, yet with three thoughts mingling delightfully in his mind: that he had won, won in spite of obstacles, fair and clean; that the Pentathlon shield was his, and best and most glorious of all, that the challenge cup would come to Fenton--to stay.
Thus, through the shouting and the cheering, he was carried along in triumph, and in the midst of it all, one other thought still came to him--the best thought, perhaps, that can ever come to a boy's mind. Hopevale Oval had vanished, and in spirit he was a thousand miles away. "I wonder," he said to himself, with a sudden thrill of happiness, "I wonder what they'll say at home."