Five points were given to the winner in each event, three to the second and one to the third. So that no matter which nation won the first, another might win the second or third or both, and thus keep within striking distance in the general score.
From the first day, the American score began to climb. But the Germans and Swedes and English were climbing, too, and it became clear that it was not to be, as in previous meets, a walkover for the Stars and Stripes.
In the field and track events—what we understand in this country by athletics—the Americans were vastly superior. The broad jump was theirs, the pole vaulting, the hurdles, the four hundred metres and fifteen hundred metres runs. Drake won the discus throw and Snyder hurled the hammer further than it had ever gone before.
But there were other features in which we had but few representatives, and in some none at all. The archery shooting went to England. The javelin casting with both hands was won by a gigantic Swede. The horsemanship contest was carried off by officers of the German cavalry. France took the lead in fencing and Canada captured the long-distance walk. The horizontal bar work of the Germans was far and away the best, and her beef and brawn gathered in the tug of war. In the bicycle race Italy came in first, and we had to be content with second and third.
All these events swelled the foreigner’s score, and although America captured the Pentathlon and Decathlon for all round excellence, her lead on the tenth day was threatened by Germany and Sweden who were close behind.
“’Twill be no two to one this time,” Reddy grumbled. “’Tis glad I’ll be if we come out ahead by the skin of our teeth. We can’t seem to shake them fellers off. They hang on like leeches. I’m thinking, Wilson, ’twill be up to you to grab that Marathon, if we’re to go back to God’s country with colors flying and our heads held high.”
And Reddy was so true a prophet that when at last the momentous day came for the Marathon race, the German boar was gnashing his tusks at the American eagle. Only two points behind, he came plunging along, and victory for either depended on who won the Marathon.
The day before the race a package was delivered to Bert at his hotel. It bore the American postmark and he looked at it curiously. Within was a letter from Mr. Hollis and a little roll of bunting. Bert unrolled it. It was a torn and tattered American flag bearing the marks of flames and bullets. Across it had been stamped in golden letters: “We have met the enemy and they are ours.”
“I’ve had it a long time in my historical collection,” Mr. Hollis had written. “It’s the identical flag that Perry flew in the battle of Lake Erie. I’ve had his immortal words stamped on it. It saw one glorious victory won for America. I want it to see another. I loan this to you to tie in a sash about your waist when you run the Marathon. I’m banking on you, Bert, my boy. Go in and win.”
Bert touched it lovingly, reverently. A lump rose in his throat. “I’ll wear it,” he said, “and I’ll win with it.”