For the good of the team

by Ralph Henry Barbour

It was Tully, big and raw-boned and earnest. There was something impressive about Tully’s running, even if he never finished better than second or, more often, third. Tully set his pace a dozen strides from the start and never changed it. He knew how fast he could run four laps of the track, and he made his plans accordingly. If the pace he set wasn’t hard enough to wear the other man out, why, that was something else. Some day, Tully promised himself, his pace would do the trick. It was only a matter of finding the pace that, persisted in from the start to finish, would carry him to victory. Meanwhile, those who depended on a final, heart-bursting sprint to carry them the last part of the way won from him only tolerant contempt. Whether he finished first or second or tenth, Tully would always step off the track with a tranquil countenance and walk unhesitatingly to the dressing room. Stamina was old Tully’s long suit, and, as The Laird observed frequently, if the Dual Meet provided for a two-mile run Tully would win such an event at a jog!

Tully never glanced aside as he went slowly, methodically past Stuart, and gradually took the pole again. Behind Tully ran Walton, and Stuart had no intention of letting the latter by just then. Stuart increased his speed for a half-dozen strides and placed himself behind Tully. From there he went on like the bigger fellow’s shadow, matching stride for stride. Of the twenty or so who had started only a dozen were left in the running, although all but three were still jogging about the track, hopelessly distanced. Ahead of Stuart were five men: Lantwood, with nearly a quarter of a lap lead; a red-headed fellow whose name Stuart did not know; Smiley who, although he had lost much of his handicap, was still running nicely; Farnsworth, who was falling back at the turn, and Tully. Farnsworth appeared to have shot his bolt too soon, for he was evidently in distress already. Stuart’s own condition was not, he reflected, anything to boast of, but he could still pound out the strides and still keep his head level. Toe to heel with Tully, he took the corner and drew up on Farnsworth. The latter was wobbling badly. Across the next corner, Stuart observed that the unknown redhead was slowing up.

The gong had clanged the beginning of the last lap, announcing that Lantwood had crossed the mark. At that moment Tully edged outward and Stuart took his cue from the big fellow and they went past Farnsworth. Then the straightaway began, with the crowd about the finish line. The gong clanged again. That would be either the redhead or Smiley, thought Stuart. He couldn’t see which was ahead. A moment later he was himself passing the crowd, and cheers for Tully and for Harven were sounding loudly. Stuart thought he heard Tom Hanson’s voice, but he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter, anyhow. Nothing much did matter but the fact that Tully was setting a hard pace to follow. Of course Tully hadn’t altered his speed a mite. It wasn’t that. It was merely that Stuart was getting to the limit of his endurance, or thought he was, which was much the same thing.

The turn brought a certain relief and encouragement. Another corner would bring the backstretch, and after that the last turn and then the homestretch. Halfway down the further side of the track, Lantwood was going easily. He was not running so fast now, but he didn’t have to. He had the race as certainly as if he was already stepping across the line. There was no longer any question of who would win, if there ever had been. All that remained to be settled was the matter of second, third and fourth places. Well, if he could hold out, Stuart reflected, he would be sure of fourth position. Tully would get second, of course, and Smiley third. The redhead was beaten, plodding away with head swaying and his stride short. They’d pass him at the next turn. Funny, thought Stuart, if he and old Tully were to fight it out for fourth place, for Smiley still had a comfortable lead and still seemed able. He wondered what handicap Tully had had. Not much, probably, for the old warrior was a real runner at the mile. A swift glance over his shoulder showed Stuart that the nearest pursuer was at least thirty-odd yards behind and in poor shape. No danger from that quarter.

The red-haired youth dropped by them as they turned into the backstretch. Ahead, Smiley was having trouble. Stuart could see the uncertainty of his stride. Once Smiley’s head came back, was recovered and fell sidewise for an instant. Perhaps, then, it was to be third place he was to fight for, and the thought gave him a thrill. But, halfway along the stretch, his own legs began to go back on him. They didn’t feel as if they belonged to him any more. His head, too, got silly. It wouldn’t stay where it belonged. Something was wrong with his neck, for the muscles pained him and felt knotted. But of course one didn’t stop so long as he could still get his breath and keep his feet moving. If the rim of the track would keep out of his way and not try to trip him up he could do better. If he ever caught a spike in the wood—

Tully’s body leaned to the left. Stuart got a better grip on himself and followed around the corner. There was a lot of noise from across the field. Perhaps Lantwood had finished. No, Lantwood was still in sight, just vanishing into the lane formed by the crowd. Ahead, but considerably nearer, was Smiley. Stuart guessed they’d beat Smiley. He wondered if Tully hadn’t slackened his speed a mite. Here they were at the last corner already, and if Tully would only hit it up a bit they might get by Smiley before the finish came. But Tully kept on untroubledly. Stuart, sobbing for breath now, wobbling a bit more on the legs that didn’t seem his, was impatient. Didn’t the silly idiot want to win second place? What was the matter with him? Why, Smiley was all in; any one could see it; and all they had to do was speed up just a little to pass him!

A dozen strides further on Stuart became angry. He wanted to call out to Tully and tell him to sprint, but he knew there was no breath left him for any such purpose. Then, without reasoning a moment, he eased his pace a fraction, turned slightly and ran even with the big fellow. He wanted to say “Come on!” but he couldn’t even close his mouth to form the words. For three strides he matched strides with Tully, and then drew ahead. He had no longer any conscious thought of winning second place. Ahead of him, only a little way ahead of him now, was the faltering Smiley, and Stuart wanted to pass Smiley. He couldn’t have explained just then why he wanted to, but he did. It was a sudden obsession. The sight of Smiley’s swaying form ahead affronted him. He closed his dizzy eyes and forced himself on.

The sound of excited cheers, cries, exhortations might have been the murmur of a breeze among leaves so far as Stuart was concerned. Later he remembered hearing it perfectly, but just then, as he went swaying toward the finish line, it made no impression. There was but one thought in his mind. He must reach that other runner and get past him. And reach him he did, a scant four strides from the mark. After that it was just a question of inches between second man and third, and of feet between third man and fourth, for Stuart and Smiley and Tully finished in a bunch. The principal difference was less in space than in condition, for whereas both Stuart and Smiley toppled into the arms of bystanders, old Tully kept on for a dozen paces, slowed gradually and then walked off to where he had left his bathrobe.

The judge at the finish said that Stuart had won by a button, which was near enough the truth. Personally Stuart didn’t care a bit for as much as five minutes whether he had won at all. But when he could sit up again and look about him on a hazy world the knowledge brought a warming satisfaction. A dozen fellows were telling him that he had run a great race, that he had shown fine generalship and a lot of other complimentary things, to all of which Stuart listened amiably and in silence. Then he allowed Tom Hanson to raise him to his feet and some one else to hold his robe for him; and a pale, panting youth who proved to be Smiley, shook hands with him and said “Congratulations, Harven,” and Stuart grinned and answered “Thanks! Ought to have been you,” and, so far as Stuart was concerned, the Fall Handicap Meet was at an end.

Of course a certain renown accrued to him, and the race was talked of for a day or two. The Laird tried to get him to promise to keep on training for the track, promising to make a great miler of him by the next year, but Stuart shook his head. “It was rather fun,” he acknowledged, “but I’m through, Laird. I’m not really a track man. Next year—well, I guess I’ll be playing football again by then.”