[CHAPTER II]
A VISITING CARD
When Allan Ware recovered enough to take an interest in things he found himself lying in the dressing-tent with some one—it afterward proved to be Harris—striving to draw a coat from under him. No one was paying any special attention to him, and the tent was filled with the hard breathing of the runners, who were now only intent upon getting into their clothes. Allan took a deep breath and obligingly rolled over so that Harris could have his coat. Then he sat up.
He had not fainted at the end of the race; it is very seldom that a runner loses consciousness, no matter how hard or prolonged the struggle has been. The collapse is produced by oppression of the chest, less frequently of the heart in particular, and the consequent difficulty of breathing is the most painful feature of it. Allan had been dimly aware from the moment he pitched into the throng until now of what had passed, but his interest in events had been slight; he knew that arms had reached out and saved him from falling and that some one—a very strong some one, evidently—had picked him up like a feather and carried him the short distance to the tent. Allan wondered, now that he could breathe again without exertion, who the fellow had been.
Every one was intent upon dressing and no one looked as though expecting thanks. Rindgely, still blowing like a porpoise, was balancing himself on one leg and trying to thrust the other into his trousers, while he explained to Hooker that the track was like mush and no one should be expected to run on it. Hooker, looking amused, grunted as he pulled his shirt over his head. Allan scrambled to his feet and began to dress. He couldn’t help wondering what the others thought of his victory; it seemed rather important to him, but he had never won a race before, although he had taken part in a good many, and so it probably appeared more wonderful than it really was. The trainer stuck his head in at the door.
“Hurry up, now,” he commanded. “Get up to the gym, and don’t be afraid of the water when you get there.”
This familiar formula met with the usual groans and hoots, and Kernahan grinned about the tent. Starting to withdraw his bullet-shaped head with its scant adornment of carroty hair, the trainer’s eyes fell on Allan. He picked his way over the tangle of legs.
“Well, are you done up?” he asked. Allan shook his head.
“That’s the boy, then!” continued Billy, heartily. “You’d better come out Monday and we’ll see what you can do. Did you ever run much?”