The boys of Columbia High in track athletics

by Graham B. Forbes

As time would hang heavy while the runners were away, and in order to amuse the great crowd, the management had arranged to have several spirited contests for additional prizes. But although these were full of go and spirit, and evoked considerable enthusiasm when decided, it was plain that the throng thought only of the runners coursing over the country roads, and who in good time would begin to show up.

The course was in the form of a great loop, though both the start and the wind-up of the race followed a single track for half a mile. And when the returning runners struck this neck of the bottle on the return trip, the discharge of a small cannon would announce that the home stretch had been entered, when everyone was supposed to exert himself to the limit of endurance.

But as our interest lies almost entirely with the runners, it is only right that we should follow them in their long race.

Frank and Lanky had managed to keep pretty well together during the first few miles. Their position was something like midway; for while there were several of the contestants ahead of them, others were in the rear.

Bones had been unable to restrain his eagerness, and chased after the two leaders—Parker for Clifford, and Coddling for Bellport. Just back of the other two Columbia entries ran Wentworth, that sturdy Clifford fellow, who had always worked so hard on diamond and gridiron for the honor of his school. Then, not far back of him came Mallory and Keating, two new Bellport “wonders,” who failed in the pinch to get even a showing. Far in the rear trailed Atkins, the third Clifford contestant, who seemed either gone “stale” from overtraining, or else was having trouble with his shoes, for he had stopped twice to do something.

That was the way the runners were spread out when the three-mile mark was passed. Now and then Frank could catch a glimpse of those who were ahead. He wanted to make sure Parker did not gain such a tremendous lead that he could not be overhauled later on.

Lanky was fretting some, as usual. He seemed like a mettlesome horse chafing because of the restraining bit.

“Frank, say the word, and let’s pick up a bit!” he complained.

“Just a little, then,” was the reply the other made.

The fewer words that passed between them the better, for breath was valuable. And it was more to quiet Lanky than because he believed there was as yet any need of shortening the distance between the leaders and themselves, that Frank gave in so readily.