The play that won

by Ralph Henry Barbour

The next afternoon Terry divided his time—and, since he was no longer essential to the nine, he had plenty of it—between the routine prescribed by the coach and his self-training for the half. Perhaps had Terry been viewed by Mr. Cramer a trifle more seriously he would not have been allowed to risk overtraining, but the coach wasn’t especially impressed with the boy’s efforts. Perhaps next year Terry might find himself, and it was in that hope that the coach gave him such encouragement as he did. Of course Terry didn’t go the full half-mile on Tuesday, nor yet on Wednesday. He knew better than to do that. What he did do was follow in a general way the instructions given to the half-milers. He tried short sprints of thirty and forty yards at top-speed, jogged a mile each day and at last, on Thursday, cut in with the half-milers and ran the three-quarters with them—or, rather, behind them—at a fairly good clip. He was trying hard to learn this new distance, and it wasn’t easy. He knew fairly well how hard he could go for the four-forty without running himself out, but twice around the track, with eight corners to reckon instead of four, was a vastly different proposition.

And yet, when Saturday came and he gave up seeing the Prentiss game for the sake of running, he felt sure enough of himself to ask permission to enter the trial with the regular half-milers. Mr. Cramer gave rather impatient permission and Terry took his place in the second row and tried to remain unconscious of the looks of surprise or amusement with which his companions viewed him. Terry Wendell was in a fair way to become rather a joke, it seemed. But Terry didn’t do so badly in the trial, after all, for out of the field of twelve he finished seventh. It was a poor seventh, to be sure, and he never learned his time, but he thought that Mr. Cramer observed him a bit more tolerantly afterwards, even if he had nothing to say to him. That race taught Terry one thing, which was that the half-mile was not so long as he had reckoned it. He had run too slow in the first lap. Another time, he told himself, he would know better than to let the others get away from him like that. He had finished the race with a lot of reserve which, had he called on it before, might have put him in fourth place at least.

Relations between him and Walt Gordon were strained. Walt, secure in the knowledge of his supremacy in the mile run, was not worried by Terry’s new activity. Walt was pretty sure of handing over five points to his school in the Dual, for Lacon was known to be weak in the mile, and was equally sure that if Terry managed to secure the one point that went with fourth place he would be doing more than anyone expected of him. But Terry’s accusation to the effect that Walt had quit in the Fall Meet held just enough truth to be unpleasant to the latter youth, and his feelings in consequence were not very cordial toward Terry. As to the incident mentioned, why, it didn’t amount to much in Walt’s judgment, but, just the same, he preferred that fellows shouldn’t suspect it. He had turned his ankle in the third lap, just as he had said, but there was no denying that had Hyde not had a fifteen or twenty yard lead on him he would have finished the race without untold agony. As it was, it wasn’t worth while. Everyone knew that he was better than Hyde. And Walt hated to be beaten! He and Terry didn’t speak to each other just now: didn’t even see each other if they could help it: but Terry heard from Tolly that Walt was making amusing remarks about the new half-miler: and it needed only that to make Terry buckle down to track work harder than ever.

Tolly had covered himself with glory in the Prentiss game, getting two hits off the visiting pitcher, which was one more than anyone else had secured and two more than most. And he had fielded well, besides. The fact that Prentiss had won the contest in a last fatal inning didn’t detract from Tolly’s glory. Terry, though still hurt over being dropped, was glad that Tolly had succeeded to his position, and said so, and Tolly showed vast relief. “I was afraid you’d be sore at me,” he explained. “I didn’t want you to think that I was trying to get you out, Terry. Anyway, you’d have done just as well as I did if you’d been in my place.” Terry wanted to think that, too, but he couldn’t quite do it.

On Monday Mr. Cramer surprised him by saying: “I guess you’d better cut out your sprints to-day, Wendell. You didn’t do so badly in the half Saturday and I’ve half a mind to let you see what you can do. How did you come through?”

“Fresh as a daisy, sir.”

“Well, go easy this afternoon. Jog a mile and do a short sprint at the finish. If I were you I’d try for a shorter stride, my boy. It looks to me as if you were straining a bit. There’s nothing in a long stride if it doesn’t come natural.”

The next day, when work was over, the coach spoke again. “I’ll put you down for the half, Wendell,” he said. “There’s no doubt about your being a better middle-distance runner than a sprinter. And I’m not sure that you’ve found your right line yet. Next Fall, if I were you, I’d have a try at the mile. Maybe you can run them both. There’ll be another trial about Friday, and if you show up well I’ll enter you for the Dual.”

Terry went back to Munsing Hall with his heart beating high. He found Hal Merrill and Phil Hyde there with Joe. Hyde was an upper middler, a slim, dark-complexioned fellow with quiet manners. He and Hal roomed together over in Warren. “Here’s another one,” said Hal as Terry entered. “Want to go on a hike Sunday, Terry?”

“I guess so. Where?”