“No, he’s not; that is, he’s a good cross-country runner for the reason that he is an excellent jumper and hurdler, and makes up by his speed over obstacles what he loses on the flat; but he’s only a fair cross-country man because he is worn out at the end of the second mile; after that, to the finish, he has to depend on nerve and ‘sand.’ Two years ago he managed to finish second, how I scarcely know. This last fall, of the four men who finished first, three were distinctly of a bilious temperament, and one, Northrop, fairly lymphatic. Of course, to this, as to all other rules, there are exceptions; but it’s a rule that holds generally true. To the sanguine temperament we look for speed, to the bilious for endurance, to the lymphatic for nerve.”
On the days when the cross-country run was not in order Wayne went with the other fellows to the track and practiced starting, and afterward ran varying distances on the cinders. The latter work Wayne liked, for, although he had not as yet been allowed to go over three fourths of a mile, and though Professor Beck had never yet told him what time he made, he felt that he was at last getting in touch with real work. Often he was one of a little bunch of half milers and milers, and there was a pleasurable intoxication in working past this runner or that, and, as sometimes happened, finishing well in the lead. Professor Beck’s sole comments at the end of a performance of this sort was a brief “Well done, Gordon,” or an almost equally laconic “Try to better that to-morrow.”
But of criticism before and during the practice there was plenty. “Arms down, Gordon!” “That stride’s too short; lengthen out! lengthen out!” “You’re running too fast, Gordon. Ease up on this lap.” “Put your head back so you can breathe, and, for goodness’ sake, keep your arms down!”
But the latter injunction seemed to be always wasted. Try as he would—and he did try—Wayne’s arms could not be made to hang; they always, sooner or later, got glued to his breast, making him look—so Don said—as though he had a pain. Professor Beck reprimanded and scowled and growled, but to no purpose. Wayne replied that he could run better with his arms against his body, and he didn’t see what difference it made. Professor Beck explained all over again that his lungs ought to have free play and that by keeping his arms and shoulders back they were unrestricted.
“But I’m more comfortable that way,” Wayne pleaded. And the professor would smile in exasperation and beg him to try the other way “if you please, Gordon!” And Wayne would promise and forthwith try, and in the middle of a two-third-mile run discover to his amazement that his clinched hands were as tightly glued to his chest as ever!
But aside from this defection Wayne’s performance was promising and Don was delighted. “You’ll make the team sure,” he declared. “And if you do you’re almost certain of a first or second place. Neither St. Eustace nor Warrenton has a first-class miler. You and young Whitehead, and possibly Banks, will make a good trio.”
But if running on the cinder track pleased Wayne the daily practice at starting equally displeased him. It was exasperating and tiresome work, but there was a good fifteen minutes of it every afternoon, and Wayne had a lot to learn. In squads of four or five the runners and jumpers were placed at the mark and sent off at the report of a pistol. The sprinters and hurdlers were instructed in the crouching, and the long-distance men and the jumpers in the standing start. Time and again Wayne, with his left foot on the mark, his body thrown forward, and his ears straining for the report of the pistol in Professor Beck’s hand, would for a single instant relax his vigilance, when—bang! and off would go the rest of the squad a good yard or more ahead of him! And when they all came trotting back for another try Professor Beck would inquire politely:
“Asleep, Gordon?”
Perhaps on the next attempt, mindful of his previous error, Wayne would offend in the opposite direction and start with a wild plunge down the track only to realize that the pistol report which he had seemed to hear was only a thing of imagination born of strained nerves and muscles. Then he would crawl shamefacedly back to meet the grins of the other chaps and to hear Professor Beck remark pleasantly:
“I see you’ve woke up, Gordon.”