With an effort Dick kept control of himself. And then the second round began. It resulted in a general improvement. Ellis put forty feet and one inch; Ross thirty-seven, eleven; Merrihew thirty-eight, nine. When it came Dick's turn he forced himself to imagine that he was practising alone in McDonald's field, with no crowd to trouble him. He put his whole mind on his form, and as a result, did better, getting in a try of thirty-six, seven. Yet he felt far from satisfied, and all at once it flashed upon him that he was doing the very thing which McDonald had told him, long ago, was his besetting fault, that he was stiffening up too soon in his effort, and not getting the powerful, sweeping drive which made Ellis' trials so successful.
The third round began. Ellis fell back a few inches, putting thirty-nine, ten and a half; Ross improved to thirty-eight, four; Merrihew put an even thirty-nine feet. "Thirty-eight four to beat," Dick kept thinking to himself. He had never done it in practice, but now, if ever, was the time. His name was called. He was perfectly cool by this time; he knew exactly what he wished to do; and poising easily at the back of the ring, he swung into his put, and finished through with every bit of strength he possessed. It was a better try than his others--he knew that, on the instant--but was it good enough for the point. The measurers seemed to take longer than usual over their task. Finally the announcer cried, "Thirty-eight, three and a half." Dick turned away, sick at heart. He had failed; the point was lost.
Brewster and Allen were at his side in an instant, cheering him as best they could. "That's all right, old man," Brewster cried; "don't you care. You beat your record. You can't do impossibilities. Don't you mind." But Dick refused to be comforted. "A half an inch," he kept repeating to himself, over and over again. "The least little bit more ginger; the least little bit better form; a half an inch; confound the luck!" and he sat gloomily watching the finals, which resulted as expected, Ellis first, Merrihew second, Ross third. And the score board showed:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale
24 30 34
The high jump alone remained. Brewster figured for a moment, and then came over to Dick. "I don't want to rattle you, old man," he said, "but there's just one chance in a hundred still. Hopevale hasn't a man that's any good in the high; Clinton's got Johnson and Robinson. If you could get a streak of jumping and beat Johnson, we'd win by a point."
Dick nodded. "I'll do everything that's in me, Ned," he said quietly, and Brewster felt satisfied with the reply.
The high jump was soon under way. At five feet, two, only Johnson, Robinson and Dick were left. At five four, Robinson failed, scoring a single point for Clinton. And then ensued a duel between Johnson and Dick. Dick was jumping in his old time form, with plenty of speed and spring, and all the stimulus of knowing that he might yet save the day. Both boys cleared five, five, and five, six, in safety. At five, seven, Johnson failed on his first trial, and the Fenton supporters felt a sudden gleam of hope. Dick made ready for his try, every muscle working in unison, every fiber in his body intent on clearing the bar in safety. He ran down easily, quickened his pace on his last three strides, and leaped. It was a splendid effort, save that he had taken off a trifle too far from the bar. He was almost over and then, in a last effort to work his body clear he lost his balance, just grazing the bar, and fell into the pit, landing with one leg under him. There was a moment's suspense; the bar hung undecidedly, springing up and down under the impact of Dick's body--and then, just as the Fenton crowd were getting ready to cheer, it gave one final shiver and dropped into the pit at Dick's side. The cheers were changed to a groan of disappointment, and then the silence grew almost painful as Dick did not rise. Brewster hurried over to him; Randall's face was white with pain. "Ankle, Ned," he said. "Give me a hand up, please."
A moment later the doctor was examining him. "No break," he announced at last, "and nothing really serious. But that ends it for to-day. Another wrench, and you can't tell what would happen. Sorry, but it's the fortune of war."
Dick protested vigorously. "I can get around on it," he cried, "let me jog up and down, Doctor, and then take one more try. I don't care what happens."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be foolish, Dick," he said. "You couldn't jump three feet with that ankle. Don't walk on it, either, you must give it absolute rest."