Dick Randall, the Young Athlete

by Ellery H. Clark

Dick nodded, picked up his sweater, and jogged off across the field. The master walked back to where Brewster was standing. "Well, Ned, there's no mystery about your Pentathlon man," he said, "it's as clear as day. He's going 'stale,' as the trainers say; he's been doing too much work. I don't mean too much for his health. That's all right, or the doctor would have notified me. But Randall's a fellow with nerves, in spite of his strength. And he's lost just enough energy, with all the work he's been doing, to take the edge off his speed and his spring. You must tell him to quit, right where he is; to lock up his spikes and his athletic clothes; and not to come near the track again until the day of the games. If he will do that, you will have him ready for the meet, in as good shape as he ever was in his life. I feel sure of it."

That evening Brewster went over the whole situation with Dick, and gave him his orders, to be carried out to the very letter. Dick promised to obey, and yet to keep from worrying was no easy task. The whole school could talk of nothing but the coming games. Every one was going around, with paper and pencil, figuring the final distribution of the points. There were twelve events altogether; first place counted five, second two, and third one; a total of ninety-six. School spirit ran high, and no one figured in any other way except to give Fenton the victory. Forty points was the favorite figure, and about thirty each for Hopevale and Clinton. It was an interesting, if rather unprofitable employment. And for Dick to keep out of the prevailing excitement was next to impossible, especially when his schoolmates would say, "We've got you figured for second in the high, Dick," or "Do you think you can get third in the broad?"

Again, the program of resting, and keeping away from the field, worried him more than anything else. Accustomed as he was to his daily exercise, his muscles, after the first day's lay-off, began to stiffen, and lacking the experience to know that this was something which would disappear with his rub-down, and his first trial jump in the competition, Dick fretted over it as if it had been some serious muscle strain. Yet somehow, the week went by, and the day of the games came at last.

It was a perfect afternoon, just pleasantly warm and still, with no wind to trouble the distance runners on either stretch. The games were scheduled for two o'clock. By one, the Clinton athletes had arrived; shortly afterward, the Hopevale team put in an appearance; and by half-past one the grandstand and the bleachers were filled, and the boys were beginning to limber up on the track. Dave Ellis, with the blue "H" of Hopevale on his chest, seemed in nowise embarrassed at thus revisiting his old quarters, but came out to practise with the rest, and put the shot well over thirty-eight feet in a preliminary try. Shortly afterward, Dick had his first glimpse of Johnson, the mainstay of the Clinton team. He was a good-looking, pleasant-faced boy, who went about his "warming-up" so quietly and unobtrusively that one would scarcely have selected him, at first, for an athlete of prominence. Yet Dick, watching the play of his long, smooth muscles, and noting how easily and springily he moved up and down the track, knew that he was looking at a first-class man.

Promptly, at five minutes before two, the clerk of the course came hurrying across the field. "All out for the hundred," he called, "hundred yards, last call. All out for the hundred." The games had begun at last.

Dick took his seat on the balcony of the dressing-room, and gazed out at the animated scene. All at once it occurred to him that if he were only a spectator, and not a contestant, he should be thoroughly enjoying the whole affair. It was an inspiriting sight; the level green of the field, the darker oval of the track, the grandstand, bright with color; and now, walking slowly over toward the start of the hundred, the six contestants, two from each team, each bound to do his utmost to score for his school. He could distinguish Steve Lindsay; the tall figure of Harris of Clinton, the favorite, conspicuous in his striped jersey of red and black; and the figures of the two Hopevale men, of whom little was known, with the light blue "H. A. A." on their shirts. There was the usual warming-up, a word or two of caution from the starter, and then his whistle blew loud and shrill. There came an answering wave of a handkerchief from the spot where the judges and timers stood grouped around the tape.

In the hush that followed, Dick could hear the starter's voice sound sharp and clear across the field. "On your marks!" The six figures crouched. "Get set!" They bent forward, tense, expectant. And then a puff of smoke from the starter's upraised pistol--"Bang!" and they were off, to a perfect start. Dick's hands clenched; his eyes strained to distinguish the entries from his school. For a moment the crowd was silent, and then, as the first thirty or forty yards were covered, and the runners began to separate and draw apart, there arose a tumult of shouts and cheers, above it all the cries from Fenton, "Lindsay! Lindsay! Lindsay!" It was true enough. Lindsay was ahead, a foot or two in front of Adams of Hopevale, with Harris several yards behind. At fifty yards it was the same--and at sixty--and then all at once Harris seemed to settle to his stride. He drew up on the leaders with a rush, at eighty yards was on even terms, and then, forging steadily ahead, crossed the line a safe winner, with Lindsay just beating out Adams for second place. In a moment, Dick could hear the scorer's stentorian tones echoing over the field. "Hundred yards dash--won by Harris of Clinton; Lindsay of Fenton, second; Adams of Hopevale, third; time, ten and two-fifths seconds." And then, on the big score board at the end of the field, the huge figures were hoisted that all might see.

Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
5 2 1

With the cheers of the Clinton delegation still ringing out on the air, the runners came jogging back to the dressing-rooms, and the next event--the hundred and twenty yards high hurdles--was called. Already the men employed on the field were setting out the obstacles on the track. There were but four entries, for Barker and Jones, the Hopevale hurdlers, so far outclassed their field that Arnold of Clinton, and Taylor of Fenton had been entered with no hope of first or second, but merely to battle for the single point which would reward third place. Yet the race displayed the uncertainties of athletics in general, and of the high hurdles in particular; for while Barker, the winner of the previous year, took the lead at the start, and was never headed, Jones, his team-mate, loafing comfortably along in second place, got in too close at the sixth hurdle, struck it heavily, staggered a few steps, and plunged headlong into the seventh, bringing it down with him to the ground. After this disaster, there was no hope of a recovery, and Arnold took second place, and Taylor third, making unexpected and welcome additions to the winnings of their schools. The figures on the blackboard were shifted, and Clinton's lead was reduced, while the Fenton score looked somewhat small beside the other two.

Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
7 3 6