But there was one thing that acted as a solace: a good start was always applauded by the professor; perhaps in only two words, but worth to the boy whole sentences of praise or compliment. And, besides, his work was not so hard as that of the sprinters, who were forced to crouch like monkeys or cats—Wayne was never able to decide which they most resembled—for long seconds at a time, only to have the signal come when they had shifted their weight for a second from legs to arms, and to either leave them dazed on their mark or to send them sprawling on the cinders. That, at least, was spared him. He was not the only one of the many candidates for track honors that made a muddle of starting, but, as Don cheerfully told him after a specially disastrous afternoon, “there was no other fellow in the lot who could start wrong and do it with such infinite variety.”
But Don was often sorely tried and perplexed in those days of early training, and the unnecessary candor of the remark may be forgiven him. Don had his own training to go through with, and was besides compelled to take an active part in the training of others. The hurdlers and jumpers in especial were under his instruction, while, nominally at least, he was responsible for the proper work of all the candidates. Dave alone appeared undisturbed by events. At least four times a week he practiced with the hammer, Professor Beck viewing his performances with scarce concealed displeasure. For Dave’s hammer throwing did not improve as the season wore on. Of the two other aspirants for success at the sport, one, Hardy, had already equaled Dave’s best throw that spring; and the other, Kendall, gave promise of speedily attaining a like degree of proficiency. But Dave did not believe in worrying; he only tried his best, put every scrap of strength into his efforts, tossed the twelve-pound ball and wire away over the grass as though it were the veriest plaything, and then exhibited neither surprise nor disappointment when measurement revealed the fact that once again he had failed to equal his own not overgood record made in the interscholastic meet the year before. Instead of fretting Dave worked the harder, and if honest endeavor deserves reward Dave should have captured the championship.
Week after week of good, bright weather, sometimes brisk with north winds, but never disagreeable, came and went. Wayne ran one-hundred-yard dashes, trotted slow miles, sped over moderate three quarters—always with a jolly sprint for the last forty or fifty yards—went jogging across country over fences, hedges, and brooks, put in a bad quarter of an hour in front of the starter’s pistol, occasionally had a whole day of rest, and every night settled down to his studies with a cool, clear brain and a splendid absence of nerves. And one day the entries for the spring handicap meeting were posted and all the candidates for athletic honors went at their training harder than ever.
[CHAPTER XVIII]
DON LOSES HIS TEMPER
“Connor, you and Middleton will try the full flight together. Get on your mark, and I’ll start you in a minute. Perkins, you took the full distance yesterday, didn’t you? Well, report to Mr. Beck, please, for starting; and you’d better go a hundred and twenty on the flat at about a sixteen-second clip. Hello, Wayne, aren’t you working to-day?”
Wayne suited his step to Don’s and trotted up the track with him to where Connor and Middleton were waiting at the far end of the long line of hurdles.
“I guess so; after a while. Beck’s busy with the broad jumpers. Are you going over the hurdles?”
“If I get a chance. Hang it, I haven’t had any time to practice this week. Connor and Middleton have taken up every minute, and they’re awful duffers at hurdling. Perkins is a good man, though; he just passed you a minute ago. Wait until I get these fellows off and I’ll talk to you.”