It was a jubilant crowd that made the return voyage on the Northland, in the words of Tom, “one continuous joy ride.” Training was over, the strain relaxed, the victory won. It had been a tussle from start to finish, but they had carried off the prize and one more series of Olympic games had been placed to Uncle Sam’s credit. Thornton, Hallowell, Texanima, Brady and Casey had finished among the first ten and shared with Bert the honors of the Marathon. The Emperor himself had placed the laurel crown on Bert’s head, and, as Dick said, proved himself “a dead game sport” by the gracious words with which he veiled his disappointment. Cable messages had poured in on Bert by the score, but none so pleasing as the one from Mr. Hollis: “You ran a magnificent race, my boy. The Perry flag is yours.”
And now they were on their way home with their hard-won trophies—home to an exulting country, whose glory they had upheld and which stood impatient to greet them with rousing cheers and open arms and all the honors a grateful nation could bestow.
The praises rained on Bert had left him as natural and unspoiled as ever. To him the whole thing was simple. A task had been put before him and he had done it. That was all.
“’Twas me that did it,” joked Reddy, “me and the band.”
“Sure,” laughed Dick, “though of course Bert’s wind and speed counted for something.”
“To say nothing of his grit and nerve,” chimed in Tom.
“’Twas this that did it,” added Bert, as he reverently unfolded the faded battle flag that had waved over Perry’s glorious squadron. “Running with this, I couldn’t lose.”
On other fields of struggle and achievement that flag was to be his inspiration. How fully he honored it, how nobly he fought for it, how stainless he kept it will be told in
“Bert Wilson at Panama.”
THE END