[CHAPTER XVII]
ON THE CINDER TRACK
One morning in late March the earth awoke to find that during the night a little south wind had melted the last vestige of ice and snow in the shaded corners, and that Spring was busy cleansing the land ere beginning her housekeeping. The gravel walks were soft underfoot and little blue ribbons of water trickled across them. The willows in the meadow at the base of the hill had suddenly put on their vernal costume of tender russet, and the campus, a veritable quagmire for the nonce, was doffing its faded livery, and, to the close observer, revealing in favored hollows and sheltered slopes a garb of soft green velvet. Along the station road the thrush proclaimed its pleasure at the new order of things in clear, sweet notes that trembled in the soft air like intangible sunflecks. The river rehearsed in gentle murmurs a new song as it rippled past island and point, and reflected on its bright surface the tender blue of the sky and the fleecy whiteness of the slowly sailing clouds. Spring had come in the valley of the Hudson.
And never was spring more welcome. The winter had been severe and protracted, and to youth and health the enforced captivity indoors had long since grown irksome. Suddenly the boathouse became the scene of much activity and the two crews took to the water with all the delight of young ducks, and the sound of oars and of the coxswains’ voices floated up from the river every afternoon. Baseballs and bats made their appearance and swept through the school like an epidemic. The campus became the center of Academy life, and the golf links was dotted with enthusiastic players. As soon as the cinder track had dried sufficiently Professor Beck and his charges took possession, and outdoor training began with spirit.
The winter term came to an end, and spring vacation depopulated the school for the better part of a week. Don and Paddy both went home for an “over Sunday” visit, the former’s duties as captain of the track team precluding a more extended absence, and the latter’s dislike to be away from Dave for any length of time causing him to cut his presence in the bosom of his family to the shortest possible length. Dave stayed at Hillton and Wayne kept him company. Both kept up their training about as they would have done had no vacation been in progress. Wayne had now attained to a development of lung power that satisfied even Professor Beck, and his triweekly performances on the gymnasium running track had given place to almost daily walks over the country roads or across fields; often there was a little cross-country run participated in by Wayne and others. No effort was made to cover the distance quickly, and the instructions were to avoid hard running; so the lads trotted easily over a two-mile course in a bunch and had plenty of fun at the hazards, and came puffing up to the gymnasium together with reddened cheeks and tingling bodies to undergo the delights of a shower bath and a subsequent rubbing down that sent them to supper with the appetites of young bears.
But with the commencement of the spring term the walks were superseded by almost daily work on the track. The cross-country trips became regular events for the first and latter part of the week, and were varied in distance from time to time. Often Wayne was the only one of the “milers” or “half milers” to take the run; sometimes he was accompanied by Whitehead, a promising junior class youth; and less often the entire group of candidates were out. But whether the others were sent across the fields or not, Wayne was never allowed to miss a run.
“You see, Gordon,” Professor Beck explained one day, “we have a way of classing fellows into three temperaments—the sanguine, the bilious, and the lymphatic; often the classification is difficult to make, but in your case it is extremely easy. You belong in the bilious class; constitution tough and capable of severe tasks and prolonged effort; circulation sluggish; disposition naturally persevering and ob—ahem!—inflexible; requires plenty of good food and lots of exercise. You and Whitehead are the only distance men that I can rightly class as bilious; Whitehead is less so than you; there is also something of the sanguine in his make-up. So, my boy, that is why I keep you tussling with cross-country work while the others are on the track. No two men or boys, dogs or horses, require the same training in every particular. Your friend Cunningham is rather of a sanguine disposition; he’s a brilliant performer at whatever he takes hold of; he can go over the one-hundred-and-twenty-yard hurdles in the finest form; but if he tried to take an oar in a two-mile boat race he would in all probability slump in his work before the race was won. The sanguine man is a man of dash and spirit, and is, as a rule, incapable of prolonged effort; he makes a good sprinter, but a poor long-distance runner.”
“But Don is a good cross-country runner,” objected Wayne.