The cadets evidently thought so too, and Stacey’s own drum corps, who had brought out their drums on the top of a stage in expectation of this event, beat an encouraging charge as he came around for the second time. Stacey smiled as he recognized the familiar:
Boom a tid-e-ra-da
Boom a diddle dee,
Boom a tid-e-ra-da
Boom!
He turned for an instant, waved his hand to the boys, and then buckled down to his very best effort.
“It’s one in a million
If any civilian
His figure and form can surpass,”
hummed Mr. Van Silver.
“How’s that for the cup?” shouted Buttertub, who forgot personal animosities in the school triumph. He flapped his arms like a rooster about to crow, and yelled across to the drum corps, “Who’s Fitz Simmons?”
It was a well-known school cry and the boys on the stage responded lustily:
“First in peace, first in war;
He’ll be there again, he’s been there before;
First in the hearts of his own drum corps;
That’s Fitz Simmons!”
Stacey was leading—only a little way now to the finish. He said to himself, “Now’s the time to sprint.” How strange that his muscles would not obey the command telegraphed to them by his brain. Strain every nerve as he did, he could not increase the pace. Emerson, the Morse flyer, shot by him with his magnificent stride, as fresh and unwearied in this final burst of speed as Milton’s conception of a young archangel. Stacey staggered on, but the drum corps was suddenly silent, and there was no shout as he passed the cadet contingent. They and he knew that the contest was now hopeless. He did not look up at Milly. He knew, without looking, that she was applauding his rival, who had won the race and was now being borne off the field on the shoulders of his rejoicing comrades, amidst their delirious cheers. Stacey finished the course, then stalked moodily a little distance and sat down upon the grass, with his forehead resting on his knees. His disappointment was very bitter. The Woodpecker, who had not run in this race, came up to Stacey with his bath-gown, which he threw thoughtfully about the exhausted runner.
“Played out, are you, Stacey?” he asked kindly. “Well, I don’t wonder; you tired yourself out keeping up with Armstrong in the bicycle race. You made staving good time then, but you’d ought to have saved yourself and put in the licks now, old chap. Never mind, we all know what your record has been.”