Making the Nine

by Albertus T. Dudley

“I don’t know,” responded Todd, quietly. “I’m not afraid of Rawson, but Harding is another proposition. I can’t do the impossible.”

The hammer-throwing was started at the same time; and Curtis after his first throw found himself pitted against such superior men that his whole attention was concentrated on the new and unpleasant problem of beating men who were better than himself. He did see the race, for the hammer men interrupted their contest a minute to watch the hurdlers; but about all his absorbed mind took in, as the runners flew by, was a vision of two figures with faces set in a wild, harsh grimace, one bearing blue and the other red letters on his breast, skimming the hurdles with identical stride, like horses trotting in span, and behind again more blue letters and more red. There was a tremendous howling in both camps, for the race was close to the finish, and each side felt confidence in its own champion. Soon, however, Hillbury ceased to cheer, while Seaton broke out afresh, and Curtis knew that Todd had won.

The big football player went back to his post, determined not to fail his trusting schoolmates. Todd had won five points in the race just finished, and Hillbury three. The score was now Hillbury thirty, Seaton thirty-four; but of the three events left, only one, the quarter, could be counted safely Seaton’s, and the other two might yield a big addition to the Hillbury score. It was in the present event that the games must be won. Eager and fearful, he took his fourth and fifth trials. Still behind! Desperate with disappointment, poor Curtis grasped his hammer for the last time, swung it wildly round, and, with all the strength of his body concentrated in one final, convulsive jerk, sent it flying through the air.

“Too high!” he groaned, as the measurers stretched their tape over the ground. “I’m done for.” And so it was. His best throw had given him barely third place. The score now showed a balance for Hillbury of thirty-seven to thirty-five.

Discouraged as they were, the Seatonian cheerers went wild again as Dickinson’s tall, familiar form emerged once more upon the track. Not a soul among them doubted for a moment that he would win the race. The Hillburyites themselves had always passed over the event in their most optimistic calculations. Their chances seemed even less now, for Ropes had already failed them, and Willbur had run one hard race in record-making time, and could not be in condition to meet the champion. Dickinson himself gave no attention to his rivals; he started at his own pace, a little below his maximum, but rapid enough to be discouraging to the other contestants, and went fast and hard, as if he delighted in the speed, and could run the more easily the faster the pace. The runners were close together around the curve; on the back stretch Willbur forged ahead; at the end of the stretch Dickinson had barely caught him, and the two swayed into the curve with the Hillbury man on the inside, flying with a sprinter’s gait, with every muscle strained, and the strength of every heart-beat thrown recklessly into his speed. In a mass the spectators, Seaton and Hillbury, rose to their feet, and in a spontaneous, discordant howl, that defied the control of leaders, hurled encouragement and applause at the struggling pair. Around the curve the blue still gained; at the opening of the straightaway, still led by two yards. Then, as the long strides began to creep up behind him, the plucky half-miler’s pace suddenly slackened; he staggered and fell his length upon the track. While kindly arms lifted him and bore him away, the tall Seatonian swept on to the finish, and four seconds later Ropes and Watson came trailing in.

There was furious cheering when the figures of the new record appeared on the board,—cheering, too, that warms the heart as well as deafens the ears, for Seaton cheered first for their captain and then for Willbur, whose desperate attempt had driven Dickinson to his best; and Hillbury cheered Willbur and then Dickinson. Both sides felt the better for this mutual politeness; but the freshly posted score, Hillbury thirty-nine, Seaton forty-one, and the advent of the pole-vaulters, soon brought the eager partisans back to a consciousness of their rivalry.

The bar went up by the slow, tiresome intervals familiar to spectators of such games,—nine feet three, nine feet eight, nine feet nine. At ten feet Varrell and Phillippe of Hillbury alone remained in the contest, a Hillbury man having gained third place. Both men vaulted ten feet two, but at ten three Varrell failed, and Phillippe managed to wriggle over. Hillbury had added six points to her score, making forty-five to Seaton’s forty-three.

And now for the final contest to determine whether Hillbury was to keep the lead to the end! There was a sober conference at the Seaton quarters as Dick and Benson came forth. It was short, for there was really nothing to say. Seaton must gain first place to tie,—first and another to win. McGee of Hillbury had a record of five feet eight and a half; Dick had never jumped more than five feet seven. The odds were against him and against Seaton. If he lost, it would be the critical event which he was losing, and the splendid work of Todd and Dickinson and others would go for nothing.

“Keep up your courage, Dicky, my boy,” whispered Curtis. “You’ve beaten him once about the protest; you can do him up again. He’s afraid of you, don’t forget that! Keep ahead of him and he’ll go to pieces.”

That this was foolish talk, Dick knew well, but in some way it gave him heart, and the strong cheering from Seaton benches steadied him. He went over the lower heights with ease, McGee as successfully, though with less grace. At five four Dick was the only Seaton man left in the contest, while there were still two contestants wearing the blue. At five five he and McGee were alone. The bar now went up half an inch at a time, and as often as Melvin cleared the new height a shout of relief would rise from the Seaton benches, echoed again by Hillbury when McGee duplicated the jump. At five feet seven McGee failed, but succeeded the second time. At five seven and a half Melvin also failed at first, but cleared on a second trial, and McGee wriggled over, touching the bar, but luckily not knocking it off. He fell in a heap in the pit of soft earth behind the uprights, but was up again in a moment, seemingly unhurt.