Tom, Dick and Harriet

by Ralph Henry Barbour

Ferry Hill had entered Dick Somes, Chase and Townsend. Warren had intended to run, but at the last moment had funked it. For Hammond there were Connor, Parish, White, Temple and Frothingham. Connor held the Hammond record of 5 minutes 7⅗ seconds and Parish was credited with something very close to that. The other wearers of the cherry-and-black were unknown quantities. Dick had done the mile the year before in about 5 minutes and 6 seconds, but so far this spring had not been able to come within ten seconds of that time. Chase was still slower and Townsend had absolutely no hope of being able to finish inside the half-minute. But he was going to be useful.

At the beginning of the second lap he pushed to the front and took the lead, none disputing it with him. For the next lap he set a hard pace. Connor was running fifth, with Dick dogging him closely, stride for stride. At half the distance Townsend drew aside, badly tuckered, and the lead went to Temple of Hammond. By this time the eight runners were strung out for fifty yards, with Temple, Parish, Chase, Connor and Dick well together in the van. As they went by the stand on the beginning of the third lap the cheering became frantic. As though in response, Connor suddenly drew out and passed Chase. But Dick was close after him, and at the turn they had settled down again. Temple gave the lead to Parish and gradually dropped back. Then Chase began to lose and the hearts of Ferry Hill’s supporters sank. It was Parish, Connor and Dick now, with Temple and Chase fighting together yards behind. Then they were crossing the line and the last lap had begun.

The voices of the judges announcing the fact were drowned in the shouts of entreaty and encouragement that broke from the spectators.

“There’s only Dick left!” wailed Harry. “Chase is out of it entirely! If Dick doesn’t win we’ll lose! Dick! Dick! Run! You’ve got to win, Dick!”

But Harry’s frantic entreaty was lost in the babel of sound and the runners took the turn, clinging closer to the inner rim of the cinder track. Around the curve they went, Parish, Connor, Dick, one close behind the other, heads up, elbows in, strides matched.

So far Dick had stood the strain well, but now the work was beginning to tell on him. Breathing was getting difficult, his knees began to feel a little bit uncertain and his head displayed a tendency to drop back. He realized that to win better than second place was almost out of the question. Both Connor and Parish were experienced runners, were conducting the race according to some plan settled upon between them and were not going to let their adversary pass if it was possible to prevent it. And yet if Ferry Hill was to win the meet it was absolutely necessary for him to reach the tape ahead of the others. If he came in second and Chase, by good luck, came in fourth it would give them four points, just enough to lose by one! So it was first place or nothing—and Dick began to think it would be nothing.

He believed that somewhere on the back-stretch Parish would let Connor by and at the same time try to block the enemy. Connor would then hit up the pace, Parish would follow if he could and if not would lag and make it necessary for Dick to run outside of him; and in the last two hundred yards of the mile every effort, no matter how slight, counts. The idea of risking all on a spurt, passing both opponents and then trying to keep the lead to the tape occurred to him, but was relinquished. He believed that he had enough strength left for a sprint [at the finish], but he doubted his ability to make the pace for the rest of the distance.

The one encouraging thought that can come to one during a hard race is that your opponent is probably just as tired and just as worried as you are. And as Dick followed the others around the turn into the back-stretch he made the most of that thought. If his own breath came in scorching gasps from tired lungs so must that of Connor and Parish; if his own legs ached, so must theirs; if he was at his wits’ end how to get by them, they were at their wits’ end how to prevent him.

From across the field came the cheers of the watchers, but he was scarcely aware of them. His whole mind was on the race, and he watched Connor as a cat watches a mouse. For him the only sounds were the hard breathing of the runners and the crunch of the cinders under foot. A hundred yards behind, although he didn’t know it, Temple and Chase had finished their battle and the former had won; Chase, with head thrown back, was following gamely but hopelessly, already out of the race.

Yard by yard the back-stretch was conquered. The curve was already at hand and still Dick’s opponents made no move. The three ran steadily on, stride for stride. Perhaps they were waiting for him to try and pass, hoping he would kill himself in a useless attempt to take the lead. Well, he’d fool them! Then the wooden rim at his left began to curve, and suddenly Connor had slipped from his place with a gasping warning to Parish and had taken the lead. Dick went after him, but as soon as he had drawn alongside of Parish that youth, watching for him, quickly closed up behind Connor. Dick must either drop back to third place again or run on the outside, covering more ground on the turn than the enemy. Well, he was probably beaten anyway, and so he’d stay where he was. Perhaps he could cheat Parish out of second place. So around the turn they went, Connor hugging the pole in the lead, Parish right behind him and Dick at his elbow. And now they were on the home-stretch with the tape and the little knot of judges and timers scarcely sixty yards away.