For the good of the team

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“I wouldn’t,” advised Neil. “You may do a lot better than you expect and be mighty glad you ran.”

“Oh, I’ll do the half, anyway,” replied the other grudgingly as the warning cry of “On your mark!” floated down to him.

“Well, good luck,” said Neil. “Don’t start off too fast.”

Stuart nodded, his face set forward now, his hands tightening on the cork grips. After a long moment of suspense the pistol rang out and Stuart jogged into his stride.

A mile race is seldom of much interest to the spectators during the first two laps. The positions of the contestants change so gradually that there is no thrill to be had. Infrequently a runner sets out to run down an opponent, but the spurt is soon over. Stuart overhauled a junior on the first lap and was himself passed by Candee, a rather stocky senior who used so short a stride that the wonder was he could keep it up for the three laps that was generally his limit. At the starting line shouts of encouragement awaited the runners as they sped past, and Stuart heard his own name from several lips. It was Tom Hanson’s voice, however, that sounded loudest.

“Nice running, Cap!” shouted Tom. “Lengthen out a bit!”

Stuart realized the wisdom of that advice, for he had unconsciously been clipping his stride and running high. He was fairly in the ruck as he approached the corner. Farnsworth was edging past him and half a dozen others were strung along in front and behind. Not content with the pace directly in front of Stuart, Farnsworth ran wide at the beginning of the turn and then edged in ahead of a long-legged junior who had not been able to hold his generous handicap. Stuart considered passing the junior, too, taking pace from Farnsworth, but the result seemed not worth the effort and he hugged the inside rim and pegged on. His body was warm enough now and his muscles, in spite of his earlier fear, were supple and responsive. Also, he had found his wind nicely. He was, in fact, thoroughly enjoying the battle, and the idea of quitting at the end of the second lap was forgotten. Farnsworth was a dozen yards away when Stuart straightened out on the backstretch, and the long-legged junior was slowing up. Stuart went outside the latter and slipped back into place beside the four-inch boards. The breeze had passed and the evening air was still and frostily cold. As he came to the next turn he saw, across the turf, the face of the old stand, dyed orange-red in the rays of the sinking sun. All around the quarter-mile path now the contestants were strung, a few palpably out of the race and only persevering from motives of pride. He couldn’t see either Lantwood or Tully without turning his head, but he felt that the former at least was fairly close behind. He wished that Tully would pass him, for he had not forgotten Tom Hanson’s advice to tie to the more experienced miler and hold him to the end of the third lap at least. But Tully didn’t show up. Stuart promised himself to be ready to go after him when he did.

It was Lantwood who passed first. He chose the straightaway for the maneuver, spurting where the watchers were clustered thickest about the track. Stuart reflected that that was like Lantwood, for the pasty-faced youth always played to the gallery when he could. He didn’t let Lantwood’s sprint hurry him, however, and went past the mark in a babel of sound acclaiming the delight of the spectators at finding, at last, something to cheer about. If any one hailed his passing he didn’t know it, for Lantwood’s spectacular burst of speed brought forth an acclaim that drowned all other applause.

The first corner found his feet growing heavy and his breathing beginning to shorten, but he had the comforting assurance that the others were in a like case, some more so, some less. He could not, however, help glancing enviously at the fleet-footed Lantwood. The latter was some forty yards ahead, leading the field, his head up and his thin legs working like two pieces of machinery. That, acknowledged Stuart, was real running, and he was momentarily impatient with himself for having the temerity to pit his own amateur efforts against such ability. But the pat-scrunch of shoes beside him put the thought out of his mind and he turned his head a fraction to see who was passing him.