“Now, see what you can do,” said Don. “I’ll tell you frankly that neither of you can make the team on such work as you’ve done up to date. So, for goodness’ sake, put brains into your hurdling. I’ll time you this try, and the fellow that finishes second will have to work hard next week if he wants to go to the interscholastic meeting.”
Once more the pistol sounded, the two boys left the mark as though shot from a cannon, and together took the first two bars. Then Middleton began to drop behind, and at the last hurdle was a long two yards to the rear of Connor, who finished well and strongly.
“Nineteen and a fifth,” called Don. “Slow work that. But you both showed improvement. Your stride’s all wrong yet, though, Middleton; two short at first; nothing even; you’ll get beaten every time until you mend it. I won’t try you over the full flight again until you’ve had a full week’s work learning the stride. Monday you’d better go back to the low hurdles again and try taking about three of them. That’s all to-day.”
Middleton and Connor, the former looking very meek, seized their wraps and trotted away toward the dressing room. Don joined Wayne and Paddy on the top of the hurdle and the three swung their legs and chatted until Professor Beck approached and summoned Wayne to the starting line of the mile.
It was Saturday afternoon, a week from the date of the handicap meeting, and the track candidates were out in full force. Groups of white-clad boys dotted the field. The broad jumpers and the pole vaulters were busy near by; several sprinters were trotting toward the grand stand after their trials; the hammer and shot candidates were hard at work; a number of fellows were jogging about the track; on the gridiron the spring football squad was learning the rudiments of the game, and the sound of the bat broke sharply on the air now and then where the baseball candidates were at practice. On the links a number of figures moved hither and thither at the will of the speeding white spheres. The scene was a bright and busy one, and overhead the blue April sky arched cloudless from hill to mountain.
“Gordon, get your coat off and limber up,” commanded Professor Beck. “I want you to run your distance to-day on time.”
Wayne threw aside his coat, looked to his running shoes, and trotted down the cinders to the one-hundred-yard post and back again, stretching his muscles and relishing the faint gritting sound that his shoes made on the smooth, level path. Then he got on his mark and listened to the professor’s directions.
“I’ll tell you your time after each quarter,” he announced. “I want you to study it and your pace so that you will be able in a race to judge accurately how fast you are going. Get away quickly and get a good steady pace by the end of the first sixty yards. Remember you’ve got a quarter of a mile farther to run than you’re used to. And remember, too, that on the last half lap you must increase your speed. Keep that in mind and save enough strength for a good hard spurt at the finish. Sutton will pace you on the last quarter. On your mark!”
Wayne sped away from a good start, and, according to directions, found a steady pace ere the end of the first half minute, and ran in good form. At the end of the first quarter Professor Beck announced the time and bade him to slow up a little. The half mile was accomplished well under 2.28. When he reached the line at the end of the third quarter Sutton was waiting and started off beside him at a pace that made Wayne’s eyes open. But he did not try to overhaul the fleet-footed four-hundred-and-forty-yard runner at once, but ran well within himself and saved his strength for the last half lap. He began to feel the pace now, and his feet showed a tendency to drag. As he passed the line on the next to the last lap some twenty yards behind the middle-distance man Professor Beck was waiting watch in hand.
“All right,” he called. “Don’t hurry until you turn for the finish.”