“I hope it’ll save this nine,” laughed Wayne. “But those chaps look as though they meant business. One run will tie us; two will beat us.”
But fortune proved a friend to Hillton, and Gray’s wonderful hit saved the day, for Forest worked like a veteran pitcher and struck out the first two Shrewsburg men in short order. The next batter wrote finis to the game by sending a high foul into the first baseman’s gloves, and the grand stand was emptied of its throng. Shrewsburg accepted defeat manfully, answered the Hillton cheer with one equally hearty, bundled itself into the waiting coach, and took its departure with much good-natured defiant flaunting of green banners. Gray, by one brilliant stroke, had achieved a much-coveted position on the nine and was a school hero for many weeks.
The following day Wayne again sped over the mile while Professor Beck held the watch on him. But something was wrong. The professor gave him the result with ill-concealed displeasure.
“Five minutes twenty-three seconds. That’ll never do. You must cut off fifteen seconds, Gordon, if you expect to make the team. What’s the trouble?”
But Wayne couldn’t tell. He had done his best, he thought, and asserted positively that he could run the distance again without feeling it, which feat was naturally not allowed.
“Take a rest to-morrow,” counseled the professor, “so that you’ll be in good condition for Saturday. For I’ll tell you frankly that if you don’t mend that time in the handicaps you’ll find yourself out of it.”
And Wayne jogged back to the gymnasium feeling very forlorn and discouraged. But after his bath and rubbing his spirits returned and he vowed to open the professor’s eyes next time. He had entered for both the half and the mile, the former on Professor Beck’s advice. “For,” said the latter, “the races are far apart, and you’ll get over the effects of the half before the mile is called. And the half may limber you up for the longer distance.”
Wayne spent the next day in rest. Don, too, was idle, as were most of the boys who were to participate in the handicaps, and he and Wayne took a short walk along the river in the afternoon and returned at dusk in time for an hour’s study before supper. The handicaps were announced that evening, and, as is usual in like cases, there was some dissatisfaction expressed by contestants. Wayne found that he was to be allowed twenty yards in the half mile and was to run from scratch in the mile, and was quite satisfied. One thing that told its own story was the announcement that Merton would receive an allowance of eight feet in the hammer throw.
“Poor old Dave!” said Don. “That’ll cut him up like anything. I suppose it means that Hardy has turned out to be a better man, for you see he’s down for scratch. Hello! they’ve given Middleton four seconds in the one-hundred-and-twenty-yard hurdles; well, he ought to come somewhere near winning with that allowance.”
Wayne went to bed that night filled with determination to win on the morrow. He was not the sort of lad that allows the thought of coming events to keep him awake, and he was soon fast asleep; nerves were practically unknown to Wayne. But his brain proved more troublesome and continued its labors after the body had gone to rest, with the result that his slumbers were disturbed by dreams in which he seemed to be trying to win the mile race with Professor Beck perched like an old man of the sea on his shoulders, and Don continually thrusting hurdles in his path.