Back of the clubhouse and to the east lay Ashport, a thriving, up-to-date village. The river swept in a horseshoe-like curve to the south. To the north was the estate of Robert Ashley, comprising hundreds of acres of green fields, broad meadows, hills, valleys, and wild woodland. On one of the hillsides, surrounded by splendid old trees, stood Ash Hall. In order to build a home to suit himself, Mr. Ashley had razed a house that formerly stood on the same spot.
“Who is the pacemaker?” asked Merry, as he watched the runners through a pair of field glasses.
“That is Carl Prince, of Batavia,” answered Paul Proctor.
“Not Prince, the Georgetown Wonder?”
“The same fellow. He’s just as fast to-day as he was at college, when he became known as the Georgetown Wonder.”
“He was a great quarter-miler,” nodded Frank, having lowered the glasses for a moment; “but I don’t recall that he ever made a reputation as a long-distance man.”
“Not at college,” admitted Proctor. “He didn’t go in for long-distance work then. He has since becoming a member of the Ashport A. A.”
“I am inclined to fancy he has not changed his methods to any great extent, and you know long-distance work is much different from sprinting and dashes. True it is running, but runners are divided into three classes—the sprinters, the middle-distance men, and the long-distance or cross-country men. Those adapted for the second class named, or who have won records or events in that class, find it more easy to become cross-country men than do those of the first class.”
“What makes you think Prince has not changed his methods?”
“His stride, his carriage, and his tenseness. Sprinters are under strain from start to finish in a race, and their muscles are taut. They are liable to tie up in long runs. They forget to relax, and their muscles become overstrained. When a man ties up in a long run he’s liable not to finish at all. He finds himself run out at a time and point when he should be at his very best.”