The play that won

by Ralph Henry Barbour

“I don’t like it,” said Mr. Cramer. “It doesn’t look good, Cap. Whether Hyde enters or doesn’t it’s safe to say that he won’t be much use to us. I’m for filling up with two or three men to make it look like a race, anyway. We can count on Gordon copping first or second place, but we need more points than that. That Lacon bunch can kill off Pillon easily. Look here, let’s start a couple of half-milers. They can’t do any harm and they may worry Lacon a bit. If Howland makes the pace half-way through it may upset Lacon’s calculations and let us edge in for third place. Howland and Green and—I wonder about young Wendell, Cap. The boy’s got a lot of grit and he will try anything you can show him. And I’m not so sure he isn’t meant for a miler, anyway. At least he might give those red-and-gray fellows a tussle. Sound fair?”

Cooper thought it did, and that’s why, when the day’s workouts were over three surprised half-milers were trying to get used to the knowledge that just three days later they were to “kill themselves” in two laps of a mile run. Neither Howland nor Green showed much enthusiasm at the prospect. There would be perhaps thirty minutes between the races, but Howland didn’t think that he would have much appetite for the mile after running the half, no matter how much rest he got between whiles. And Green spoke to much the same effect. Of the three only Terry was pleased. Terry was more than pleased. He was supremely delighted. He didn’t imagine for a moment that he would secure first place, or second, or third, but he had a sort of sneaking idea that fourth place might not be beyond the possibilities, and when he recalled that rash boast to Walt Gordon he realized that one point might save him from utter disgrace. He had often wondered why on earth he had ever issued such a crazy challenge as that! He had as much chance of winning more points than Walt as—as he had of flying!

There was easy work on Tuesday and none at all on Wednesday, save that certain of the team were sent on a walk into the country in the afternoon. Terry was among them. So was Walt Gordon, still haughty and contemptuous. Hyde was not. It was known now that Phil had been dropped. He was still in bed and still plastered and bandaged. Maple Park wasn’t thinking any too well of her chances of winning the Meet just then. Terry was no longer down for the four-forty. In something under three weeks he had developed from a quarter-miler into a distance runner, which was, to use Tolly’s phrase, “going some!” As the day of the Meet drew near Terry began to experience a mild form of stage-fright, and there were moments when he almost, if not quite, wished that he had been less ambitious and had only the four-forty to win or fail in.

Thursday dawned with a drizzling rain. Before noon the sun came out hotly, but the track was sodden and slow and the jumping-pits little better than mud-holes. Lacon arrived, colorful and noisy, at twelve and by two o’clock the athletic field was a busy scene. The small grand-stand was crowded and spectators to the number of nearly a thousand lined the rope outside the track. A tent which flew the cardinal-and-gray of Lacon Academy had been set up as a dressing place for the visitors and about it lolled or strolled a fine-looking band of invaders. The trials in the 100-yards dash opened the event, while pole-vaulters and jumpers began their leisurely competitions.

Maple Park showed up badly in the first events. Hal Merrill won her only first in the sprints and got a second place in the high hurdles. In the low hurdles he failed to qualify, getting a poor start and not being able to make it up. The quarter-mile went to Lacon and she took eight of the eleven points. In the field events, however, the home team was showing up unexpectedly well and, when the half-mile was called, the adversaries were running close as to scores. That half-mile proved to be a pretty run. In spite of rumor, Lacon was not so strong as feared, and Howland finished a good eight yards ahead of the next runner, a Lacon youth. Terry got third place, to everyone’s surprise, beating out a red-and-gray boy in the final twenty yards. Terry got more applause from his schoolmates than Howland, I think, and walked back to the gymnasium breathless but delighted. At last, he told himself, he had really succeeded in something, and even if winning third place and thereby adding two points to Maple Park’s score wasn’t anything to gloat over it was highly satisfactory to him!

With all events save the mile run, the hammer throw and the pole vault decided it was still anyone’s victory. Maple Park had 51 points and Lacon 48. Then, while the milers were limbering up in front of the grand-stand, word came of the hammer-throw and Lacon had taken six of the eleven points and was now but two points behind. She had already secured a first in the pole-vault and it was a question what of the remaining places she would capture. It very suddenly dawned on the spectators that the Meet hinged on the last event and that the victory would likely go to the team winning the majority of points in the mile run!

Perhaps it was as well for Terry’s peace of mind that he didn’t know that, for he was feeling rather out of his element and extremely doubtful as to the part he was to play. His instructions had been to get up with Howland and Green and force the running as long as he could, taking the lead from Howland, in case that runner secured it, and making the pace a hot one to at least the end of the second lap. But they had placed him in the second row of starters and well toward the outer edge of the track and he foresaw difficulties in making his way to the front. Gordon was almost directly ahead and Pillon was second man from the pole in the first rank, with Howland rubbing elbows with him. Then the word came to get set and an instant later they were off, crowding in toward the board, jostling and scurrying. But that didn’t last long. In a moment or two all had found their places, a long-legged Lacon runner named Shores setting the pace. At the turn Pillon went past Shores and Howland passed Pillon. Terry was in fifth place, with Green just ahead. Walt Gordon was seventh man and Mullins, the Lacon hope, was ninth. Once around the turn Howland caused a ripple of surprise by drawing ahead at a killing pace. Shores accepted the challenge and the leaders generally moved faster, but neither Gordon nor Mullins altered their speed a mite. Terry moved into fourth place and the field began to string out. Howland kept the lead to the end of the lap and then weakened, and Terry, remembering instructions, strove to get to the front. But Green was at his toes and a Lacon runner had him effectually pocketed as they went into the turn. Consequently it was Green who became pace-maker, and a hard pace he set. One by one the tail-enders fell farther and farther away and the contestants formed into two groups. At the half distance the order was Green, Shores, Pillon, Terry, an unknown Lacon runner, Gordon and Mullins. Well back trailed Howland and three Lacon men.

Green was soon finished as a pace-maker and in the back-stretch Shores was again in front. As Green dropped back to Terry he gasped: “Get up there, Wendell!” And Terry tried, but the Lacon unknown moved even and held him at every attempt, and then came the turn and Terry gave it up. The race was telling on him now and his legs were getting heavy and his lungs hot. Into the homestretch they went, the crowd shouting wildly. As they sped past the mark the brazen gong clanged, announcing the beginning of the last lap, and at that instant Mullins dug his spikes and edged himself forward. Past his team-mate he went, past Terry, past Pillon, and took his place close behind Shores. From behind him Terry heard the Lacon supporters shout their triumph. He wondered where Walt was. Every instant he expected to see the blue-and-white runner edge past him. But they made the turn and straightened out and still Gordon held back. Terry grew frightened then. Shores and Mullins were gaining. Pillon came back steadily as Terry dug harder and sought to overtake the leaders. The unknown Lacon man—his name later turned out to have been Geary, but at the time Terry had to hate him without being able to put a name to him—crept up and past. Terry’s fleeting glimpse of him showed him a runner nearly “all in” but making a desperate effort. Terry took courage and set his pace by the unknown’s. And just then the sound from across the oval took on a new note and something appeared at Terry’s shoulder and slowly moved into sight and Terry, to his great relief, saw that the something was Walt Gordon.

It was only when Walt had put a half-dozen yards between them and leaned to the turn that Terry realized with sudden alarm that Walt was in little better condition than the unknown who, just in front of Terry, was wavering badly, his head sagging. Shores yielded the lead to Mullins half-way around the turn and an instant later Terry passed the unknown. He was running now with only a firm determination to finish. It would have been the greatest joy in life to have staggered aside and dropped full-length on the blurred expanse of sod at his feet. He wasn’t even thinking of points or places. He only wanted to finish what he had started, and he prayed silently and incoherently to be allowed to keep his feet past that distant white mark.

Down at the finish were straining eyes and taut nerves, for the pole-vault was over and Lacon had won first place and fourth and the score now stood 61 to 60 in favor of Maple Park. As the runners made the turn Maple Park’s supporters read defeat. Showing the pace, but still looking strong, came Mullins with a good five yard lead over Gordon, who was a scant yard ahead of Shores. Four or five paces behind them was Pillon, about ready to quit, and Terry, scarcely less willing. The unknown had disappeared. If Gordon had looked better Maple Park would have found reason to hope, but he was already slipping. For once his well-known ability to sprint at the finish was lacking. Terry, looking across the last corner, saw Walt’s head fall back. Walt recovered the next instant, but Terry understood. Pillon, too, was giving up. There was nothing to it now but Lacon, and maybe the Meet would go to the Cardinal-and-White! Terry’s distorted face writhed with a scowl. If only he had somehow kept himself fresher! If only he could cut down that distance! They were in the homestretch now and the finish was in sight. There wasn’t time, even if he had the strength and lungs.