The bar was placed at five feet eight.
“If he fails on that, we’re done for,” said Curtis in Todd’s ear; “and he can’t do it; it’s beyond him.”
“Stop your croaking!” retorted Todd. “I say he can.”
Melvin paced his distance in absolute silence. The leaders of the cheering had abandoned their duties, and like the rest of the eager crowd were intent on the jumper, their hearts in sympathy leaping with him.
And while the crowd watched his every motion, Melvin himself saw nothing but the bar ahead of him with the white handkerchief upon it, and the height and the distance, and the infinite desirability of clearing the white handkerchief and the bar without moving them from their resting-place. A short, nervous run, with his eyes fixed on the bar; a crouch like that of the panther springing for its prey; and up he floated and over the white square as if five feet eight were an easy stint, and his legs adjusted themselves automatically to the bar.
That jump settled the contests, for McGee failed three times and was out; and the score remained a tie. Seatonians and Hillburyites alike sent forth victorious yells, and then, lapsing into silence, went their respective ways, wondering whether they were really victors or vanquished. And only such as had prizes in their hands were sure that the day had not gone against them.
“Hi, Dick!” yelled Tompkins from the end of the corridor, as Melvin came upstairs to his room. “You did it, after all!”
“We did and we didn’t,” answered Dick, lingering in his doorway. “Perhaps we ought to be satisfied, for it seems to me that the Hillbury team was really the better one.”
“Then I was right.”
“About what?” asked Dick, whose mind was oblivious to all the happenings of the day except those of the last few hours.