In the training-house is the faint feverish smell of raw alcohol, and the sound of resounding slaps as the brawny rubbers massage divers sinewy legs. The sprinters and quarter-milers, whose events come first, are slipping into their scanty jeans and lacing up spiked shoes, every muscle quivering with that deathly nervousness which even veteran runners feel before a race.
Mike, the grim old trainer, is trotting around with a fixed smile on his face that he fondly imagines to be reassuring, answering numberless questions, encouraging this man, advising that, looking up lost articles—in short, giving backbone to the whole team by his presence. Suddenly the noise stops. The Captain of the team, a hammer-thrower with a frame like a young Hercules, has climbed upon the rubbing-table, and with a sixteen-pound hammer for a gavel, is calling for silence with a series of crashing blows on the long-suffering table-top.
"Boys, in five minutes we clinch with Harvard. All I've got to say is that I am proud of every one of you. I had a good eye when I chose this team, and there isn't a man on it but's full of sand. Keep cool, grit your teeth, and go in to win, and if we get whipped Harvard'll know she's been fighting."
Bang! goes the hammer, and the customary last words are over.
"Now, boys, a good big cheer for the Cap'n," shouts Mike, hopping up and down in his excitement. And a good big cheer it is. Hardly has the last deep-throated "Rah" died away before the door opens, and a field official with a flowing badge shouts, "All out for the hundred!" and the fight between the two great rivals is on.
Jack's race, the mile run, is the next to the last event. To-day is his first great race, for it was only this season, when he won the mile at the college spring games, that Mike had recognized him as a runner worthy to compete against Harvard. And he is not seasoned enough to endure well the tremendous suspense. Very weak and nervous Mike finds him as he rushes in from the track to see if all be well.
"Sort of shaky, eh?" the latter growls, looking him over critically. "Well, I wouldn't give a cent for a man that wasn't. You'll be all right the minute the pistol goes off. Lay well back until the last ten yards!" and Mike gives Jack a little shake to emphasize his words, "The last ten yards, mind, and you'll win. You won't if you don't. Save your strength for a last jump when you hear me yell. Throw yourself forward just before you get to the tape. I'll be there to catch you. And oh, my boy, win this race and the college is yours! Why—"
But all further conversation is cut short by the precipitous entrance of the Captain. He is all adrip with perspiration, for he has just won the hammer throw.
"We win the hammer," he shouts, "and the points are a tie. Now everything depends on the mile. Harvard will take the high jump and the two hundred and twenty, and we'll get the shot and pole-vault. So it's the mile that will decide everything. They'll call it the next event, Jack. Now, boys," and he again climbs upon the table, "I think a little music will quiet Jack's nerves." And in a voice that shakes the windows he commences the college slogan: "Here's to good old Yale—drink it down! Drink it down!"
"Every man on his feet and sing!" yells Mike.