For Yardley: A Story of Track and Field

by Ralph Henry Barbour

That was a pretty race, that final lap. Half-way down the stretch Goodyear slipped past Stewart and the Yardley shouts arose wild, incoherent, and triumphant. Webster was making the prettiest sort of a sprint, leaving Norcross at every stride and closing up the distance between him and Stewart, now third in the race. But Stewart was not dead yet; far from it. He was hot after Goodyear and Gerald, and at the turn the three were almost touching elbows. Gerald heard Goodyear’s panting breath beside him, and before he knew what was happening, his teammate had crossed in front of him, and on his heels came Stewart. Around the curve they went, all nearly spent now, but running doggedly; and twenty yards back came Webster. Scattered far back were Norcross, Maury, and Dunn. High had given up at the end of the third lap, and subsided on the turf.

It was at the last corner that the idea of winning suddenly came to Gerald. So far he had thought of himself only as pacemaker. Now he wondered why he hadn’t as good a right to the race as Goodyear, if he could take it! Sprinting wasn’t Gerald’s strong suit, but endurance was, and he believed that he could pass Goodyear if he tried. As they straightened out into the homestretch, Stewart, making a gallant effort, drew even with Gerald. But it was for an instant only, a matter of two strides. For then, calling on all that was left in him, Gerald drew ahead, left the pole, and ran even with Goodyear. Goodyear shot a startled glance at him and threw back his head. Down the stretch they came, the finish drawing closer at every stride, and the air filled with the wild cheers of Yardley. For Stewart had shot his bolt and was dropping back, and whether Goodyear or Gerald finished first, Yardley was certain of eight points, the meet and the Dual Cup!

Twenty yards from the line Gerald knew that the race was his. He was already a stride ahead. Goodyear’s agonized sobs were already acknowledging defeat. Gerald’s heart swelled with triumph, but in the next instant, the thought came to him that this was Goodyear’s last race at Yardley, that for four years he had been striving for the triumph, which Gerald was about to snatch from his grasp!

And then the watchers saw a strange thing happen. Gerald deliberately turned his head, saw that Stewart was no longer dangerous, and faltered in his pace for an instant. Goodyear forged ahead with a final effort, staggered across the line, and reeled into outstretched arms. Gerald, a yard behind, finished erect, and smiling, thrust aside the eager hands that would have supported him and picked up his wrap.

But he wasn’t to escape so easily. The band was already forming in the oval. The laggards were finishing to the imperious cries of “Track! Track there!” Yardley pæans filled the air. Unheard, the announcer was informing the jostling throng that Yardley had won, 67 points to 65. And then Gerald, striving to escape to the gymnasium, but hemmed in by the crowd, was lifted high in air and, with Goodyear, still white and weak, swaying dizzily beside him, was borne at the head of the procession off the field and up the path. Ahead went the band playing “Old Yardley.” Once Gerald and Goodyear were able to shake hands, but the rest of the time they had all they could do to keep their seats on the shoulders of their excited bearers. As they neared the gymnasium, Dan, breaking through the crowd, got within speaking distance of Gerald.

“Bully for you, chum!” he cried. “Have you heard your time?” Gerald smiled and shook his head.

“Five minutes, one and three-fifths! A fifth behind Goodyear! It’s the Dual record by over two minutes!”

At the gymnasium steps the runners were released and hurried for the door. Goodyear got through, but a hand stopped Gerald on the threshold. He looked up to find Mr. Collins beside him.

“Congratulations, Pennimore,” he said. “Here’s something for you. You’ve earned a new one to-day, but you may like to have this, too.”

Mr. Collins thrust something into his hand. Then the big oak door closed behind him. Outside, Chambers was leading the cheering. Gerald paused in the dim light of the hall, and opened his palm. In it lay crumpled a little white flannel Y.