Ralph Barbour - Captain of the Crew

“ Bang! ”

And ere the report had wholly died away the five runners were a quarter-way about the track on the first of the three laps constituting the two hundred and twenty yards.

As they passed under the left side of the gallery the seniors leaned over in an endeavor to catch sight of them and urged their two heroes, Wharton and Milkam, with eager cries. Then the turn was made, and Trevor, glancing upward fleetingly, saw a long row of faces peering down with open mouths from which came shouts of “Nesbitt! Nesbitt!” “Dunlop! Dunlop!” A long banner of upper middle class colors writhed serpent-like above him, and then he was under the gallery, running swiftly. Now and then he caught a blare of a merry two-step from the hard-worked band. He glanced aside. Stewart was even with him, his face anxious and somewhat pale. Wharton, Milkam, and Dunlop were strung out behind, but all well in the race.

Up in the gallery, on the left, sat Dick Hope among the seniors. Beside him were Williams and a stout, red-faced youth whose real name was Todd, but who was more generally known as “Toad.” Dick watched the runners circle the end of the building.

“First lap’s done,” he said. “That roommate of mine, Nesbitt, seems to be something of a runner.”

“Sure,” answered Todd, “’Is ’Ighness is all right, if he is a bloody Englishman.”

“I’d rather be English than Dutch, Toad,” grinned Williams.

“Shut up, you; I’m no more Dutch than you are. Here they come! Brace up, Wharton! ” and Todd leaned over the railing and waved his cap wildly in air.

“You might as well save your breath, I guess,” said Dick. “Wharton’s out of it, and so’s Milkam. The race’s between Nesbitt and young Earle. And as we can’t win it, I hope Earle will. He’s a decent, plucky youngster; and – well, anything to beat upper middle, you know.”

“You’re not very loyal to your chum,” grinned Williams.

“He has no business being in the upper middle,” responded Dick calmly. “By Jove, look there!”

Across the gymnasium the runners were speeding down the back-stretch, Trevor and Stewart, side by side, leaving the other three farther and farther behind at every step. Wharton and Milkam were practically out of it; Dunlop was ten yards to the bad, but running strongly and apparently still capable of retrieving his lost ground. At the turn Trevor hugged the inside of the track and Stewart, smaller, lither, and speedier-looking, snuggled in close behind him. Dunlop, head back, a look of grim determination on his face, spurted until he had gained a position but a scant two yards behind Stewart.

“Good boy, Dunlop!” shouted Williams, while from across the building came a wild cry of joy from dozens of throats.

“I guess that’s his last spurt,” muttered Dick; “he’s showing the pace.”

And so it proved. The bell rang warningly, and the shouting from excited partisans increased in volume as the last lap commenced. Trevor, still ahead, increased his speed. Stewart accepted the challenge promptly, and Dunlop, after a brave but futile effort to keep his place, was left behind. Milkam and Wharton plodded along easily a full half lap in the rear until the latter, spying Dunlop’s predicament, suddenly spurted, and entered the lists with him in a contest for third place, leaving Milkam, bewildered, hopelessly last.

At the second turn Trevor had given place to Stewart. When the two entered the back-stretch Trevor drew alongside his rival again, stayed there for an instant, and then drew ahead. The gymnasium was a babel of voices. The last lap was half run, and Trevor had put two yards of track between him and Stewart. Many yards behind Dunlop and Wharton were having a hot race of their own wholly unnoticed, for every eye followed the two youths whose flying feet were now pounding the incline at the third corner.

“’Is ’Ighness wins easily,” said Todd, shouting to make himself heard above the shrieks of his neighbors. Dick nodded. He was sorry to see Stewart beaten, but surprised to find himself suddenly experiencing a sensation of pride in the work of his roommate. After all, he had run a great race and deserved to win; and really, when he came to think about it, Nesbitt was handicapped by greater weight, and —

“Earle’s closing up!” cried Williams.

And so it was. With the contest almost over, the younger boy had forged ahead, and at the last turn secured the inside of the track. Trevor was wobbling! Twice he swerved unsteadily, but as the home-stretch was reached appeared to pull himself together with an effort, and gallantly strove to pass Stewart. But the latter, running steadily and seemingly untired, not only held his own, but tacked another two yards onto his gain and breasted the tape an easy winner! And how lower middle did yell!

Dunlop and Wharton fought it out to the end side by side, the former securing third place by the smallest of margins.

“Well, what do you think of that!” exclaimed Williams in deep disgust as soon as he could make himself heard. “Why, ’Is ’Ighness had the race in his pocket!”

“I think – ” Dick hesitated.

“What do you think?” Dick smiled.

“I think Nesbitt was beaten,” he answered.

Williams viewed him in painful disgust.

“I think you’re nutty,” he growled. “Don’t you suppose I can see when a man’s beaten?”

“Not always, I guess,” replied Dick enigmatically.

Whereupon Williams begged Todd to bathe Dick’s head, and in the fracas that followed the amazing result of the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash was for the time forgotten.

That evening was destined to be one of triumph for Stewart Earle and the lower middle class. In the relay race that followed the two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash the juniors had never a chance from first to last, and lower middle’s fourth man cantered home almost in time to tag the junior’s last runner ere he left the mark. Stewart and Trevor viewed the contest squatting on the floor beside the seats occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Earle and Carl Gray.

Stewart’s mother had welcomed victor and vanquished with impartial favor, although her pride and pleasure in her boy’s success was patent to all. Stewart’s father smiled near-sightedly at Trevor, and assured him that he had made a remarkable race, but his words didn’t disguise for a moment the fact that he had expected Stewart to win, and that he was somewhat surprised at Trevor’s thinking for a moment that he (Trevor) stood any chance of victory. Even Stewart appeared uncomfortable at his father’s tone, and strove to change the subject lest Trevor should feel hurt. But the latter was genuinely glad that Stewart’s parents had witnessed a victory for their son and had never a thought of disappointment or envy. As to the reason for his sudden and unexpected giving-out, however, Trevor had little to say, and when Carl suggested that perhaps he had insufficient training since the recess he eagerly acknowledged that that might have had something to do with it.

“But I never had a hope of winning,” Stewart had cried, “after the second round! I just kept on going because – well, you know – just to make as good a showing as I could. When you fell behind I was so surprised that I almost stopped.”

The sixty-yard hurdle-race proved of exciting interest to Mr. and Mrs. Earle, and every one else, for that matter, and was won in the closest kind of a finish by a senior class fellow in the remarkably good time of eight seconds. The one-mile run followed, but failed to awaken much enthusiasm from the audience, who were impatient for the final event, the senior-upper middle relay race. When the mile run was half over Trevor shook hands with Mr. and Mrs. Earle, and, encouraged by their hearty wishes for his success, hurried off to the dressing-room. Kernan, captain of the upper middle team, took him aside and questioned him anxiously.