Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner

by J. W. Duffield

Gradually the group spread out like a fan. None had quit, for it was any one’s race so far. But stamina and speed were beginning to tell. That indefinable something called “class” made itself felt. Some were faltering in their stride, others laboring heavily for breath. Sometimes the laggards made despairing sprints that partly closed the gap between them and the leaders, but, unable to maintain the pace, fell back again to the ruck.

Running easily and keeping himself well in hand, Bert at the end of the twelfth mile was bunched with five others up in front. He knew now whom he had to beat. Thornton was at his left, and Brady a little in front. But these did not worry him. Magnificent runners as they were, he felt that he had their measure. He had beaten them once and could do it again.

On his right was a little Irishman with a four-leaved clover—the emblem of his club—embroidered on his sleeve. Behind him pounded two others, like wolves on the flank of a deer. One of them was an Indian runner from Carlisle, tall and gaunt, with an impassive face. The other bore the winged-foot emblem that told of membership in the most famous athletic club in the East.

Mile after mile passed, and still they hung on. The little Irishman was wabbling, but still fighting gamely. Brady had “bellows to mend.” Bert could hear his breath coming in long, hoarse gasps that told of strength rapidly failing. The Indian had ranged alongside, going strong. Behind him still padded the feet of the remaining runner.

At the sixteenth mile, Bert quickened his pace and called on his reserve. His heart was thumping like a trip-hammer and his legs were weary, but his wind was good. He left the Irishman behind him and was passing Brady, when the latter swerved from sheer fatigue right in Bert’s path and they went down in a heap.

A groan burst from the Blue partisans at the accident. Dick hid his face in his hands and Reddy danced up and down and said things that the recording angel, it is to be hoped, omitted to set down, in view of the provocation.

Dazed and bruised, Bert struggled to his feet. He was not seriously hurt, but badly shaken. He looked about and then the full extent of the calamity burst upon him.

The downfall had acted on the other runners like an electric shock. Thornton and the Irishman were two hundred feet in front, while the Indian and he of the winged-foot, running neck and neck, had opened up a gap of five hundred feet.

Had it been earlier in the race he would still have had a chance. But now with only a mile and a half to go, the accident threatened to be fatal to his hopes. The others had gained new life from this unexpected stroke of luck, and it was certain that they would not easily let go their advantage. To win now would be almost a miracle.

With savage resolution he pulled himself together. His dizzy brain cleared. Never for a second did he think of quitting. Disaster spurred him on to greater efforts. The Blues roared their delight as they saw their champion start out to overtake the flyers, now so far in front, and even the followers of the other candidates joined generously in the applause. A crowd loves pluck and here was a fellow who was game to the very core of him.