“I don’t know who you thought it was,” said Stuart, “but there’s just one fellow it could be.”
“Meaning?”
But Stuart’s reply was prevented by the stentorian summons to the half-milers and he left Tom and went over to the starting line. Jud McColl was in charge there, and when Stuart had answered to his name he was sent down to his mark. Only Austin Lantwood stood on scratch. He was a tall, thin, pale-faced, upper-middler with colorless hair and light blue eyes. But he had the runner’s build and the muscles of his stem-like legs worked like oiled machinery under the skin. Tully, a senior, came next. Then half a dozen more were sprinkled along the cinders to where Stuart was stationed with three others, evidently all juniors, somewhat nervous and jumpy. Still others were placed here and there around the turn. Secretly, Stuart considered that the handicappers had been more flattering than charitable in awarding him his allowance. Still, he was so little concerned in his fortunes that he couldn’t muster up even a mild indignation. After the usual delay, a pistol went off behind him and he sprang forward. It took six strides to secure the position next to the rim, and he had to yield place to one of the juniors to reach it. After that he settled into a fair pace and determined to hold it, no matter what happened, until he had reached the end of the backstretch on the second, and last, lap.
There had been nineteen starters and when Stuart was well into the backstretch on that first lap more than half of the number were ahead of him. Lantwood didn’t pull up and past until the last turn was behind. Tully was close at his heels, with Farnsworth, one of Stuart’s classmates, coming stride for stride with him. The bell rang for the final lap with the field well bunched in front of the stand. But after that the runners began to string out. Just past the first turn Lantwood sprinted and took the lead and Tully fell into third place, with Farnsworth still keeping pace with him. Stuart was then eighth man, and until he was well into the backstretch he had some notion of bettering his place. But the next moment he realized that he would be lucky to finish, for Lantwood was setting a fast pace and Stuart’s breath was going fast. Halfway along the back he fell into tenth position, and from there on he ran in genuine distress. He got back his wind a little at the last corner, but he was still in bad shape and finished just about dead-beat in tenth place. Lantwood won in good time by something over twelve yards, with Tully second, a junior Levering third and Farnsworth a poor fourth. For a few minutes Stuart was too busy getting his lungs working as they should to display much interest in the result. He was convinced that running was not his game; at least that running the half mile wasn’t; and was seriously considering having his name scratched for the mile.
But there remained half an hour before that event was to be run, and maybe he’d better wait and see how he felt. After all, it was sort of yellow to give up so early. He could at least start. Hanson, who had won into the finals in both sprints, told him he had run a good race.
“I was watching you, Cap,” said Tom, “and you surely handled yourself well. Of course your trouble is that you haven’t had enough work. I wouldn’t wonder, though, if you’d do a heap better in the mile. Guess the longer distance and the slower pace is your meat. Let some one pace you for the first three laps, Cap. Then you don’t have to trouble about your time so much. Get in behind Tully, if you can. He’s a mighty steady runner and you can depend on him to take you to the fourth lap in good shape. Old Tully’s a fox at the running game. Maybe he isn’t as fast as Lantwood, but he always finishes with something left, and a couple of years from now he will be getting a lot more firsts than that poor simp.”
“I might almost think, to listen to your talk, Tom, that you didn’t like Lantwood.”
“Oh, he can run,” answered Tom, “and so can a coyote.”
“Ever see one?”