The next few days flew by with magical swiftness. There were a thousand things to be done, and Bert found himself wishing that each day had a hundred hours instead of twenty-four. The term examinations were on, and he buckled down to them manfully. He had never neglected his class work in favor of athletic sports and his standing had always been high. He worked as hard as he played, and in both study and games was up in the front rank.
But when these ordeals were over and he had passed triumphantly, every spare moment was devoted to the coming race. He put into his preparation all his heart and soul. And in this, he was ably aided and abetted by Reddy, the college trainer.
“Reddy,” as he was called from the flaming mop of hair that adorned his far from classic brow, was a character. For many years he had been in complete control of the football, baseball and general track teams of the college. He had formerly been a crack second baseman in a major league, but an injured ankle had forced his withdrawal from the active playing ranks. He had a shrewd, though uneducated, mind, and his knowledge of sports and ability as a trainer had made him famous in the athletic world. His dry wit and genial disposition made him a great favorite with the boys, though he ruled with an iron hand when discipline was needed.
He was especially proud and fond of Bert for two reasons. In the first place, his trainers’ soul rejoiced in having such a superb physical specimen to develop into a winner. He had so often been called upon to “make bricks without straw,” that he exulted in this splendid material ready to his hand. And when his faith had been justified by the great victories that Bert had won, Reddy felt that it was, in part, his own personal triumph.
Then, too, Bert had never shirked or broken training. His sense of honor was high and fine, and he kept as rigidly to his work in the trainer’s absence as in his presence. Reddy had never had to put detectives on his track or search him out in the poolrooms and saloons of the town. He was true to himself, true to his team, true to his college, and could always be counted on to be in first-class condition.
So that, although this was not a college event, Reddy took a keen personal interest in the coming contest. Every afternoon, he held the watch while Bert circled the track, and he personally superintended the bath and rubdown, after the test was over. He knew the exact weight at which his charge was most effective, and he took off the superfluous flesh just fast enough not to weaken him. And his Irish blue eyes twinkled with satisfaction, as he noted that just now he had never seen him in better shape for the task that lay before him.
“Ye’ll do,” he said, with an air of finality, two days before the race, as he snapped his split-second chronometer, after a whirlwind sprint. “I’ll not tell ye jist the time ye made for that last five miles, as I don’t want ye to get the swelled head. But, my word for it, ye’re on edge, and I don’t want ye to touch that machine again until ye face the starter. Ye’re down fine enough and I don’t want ye to go stale before the race begins. I’ve left jist enough beef on ye to give ye a wee bit of a margin to work off. The rest is solid bone and muscle, and, if the machine is as good as yerself, ye’ll get to the coast first with something to spare.”
“Well,” said Bert warmly, “it will be your victory as well as mine if I do. You’re my ‘one best bet’ when it comes to getting into form. I wouldn’t have had half a chance to pull off any of the stunts I have, if it hadn’t been for you.”
But Reddy tossed this lightly aside.
“Not a bit of it,” he protested, “’tis yersilf has done the work, and yersilf should get the credit. And ye’ve done it too in the face of accident and hard luck. This time I’m hoping that luck will be on yer side. And to make sure,” he grinned, “I’m going to give yer a sprig of four-leaved shamrock that came to me from the folks at home, last seventeenth of March. ’Twill not be hurting ye any to have it along with yer.”