Ralph Barbour - On Your Mark! A Story of College Life and Athletics

“What’s this, the third lap?” Clarke asked, thumping his bare hands together. “Well, I’m going back; better come along, Walt. You’ll freeze here. If we’re going to have this sort of weather in October, I’d like to know what’s going to happen to us in December.”

“Well, I guess I’ll go along,” Stearns said. “It surely is cold, and we know how this is going to end. There go Rindgely and Hooker now; watch ’em overhaul the bunch. If you see Ames, Billy, tell him I said he was to look me up to-night, will you?”

“All right,” answered the trainer. “But you’d better see this out; there’s something in the way of a finish coming pretty quick.”

“Why, what’s up?” asked the track-team captain, turning quickly to observe the runners.

“Well, I don’t know for sure,” answered Kernahan, cautiously, “but the scratch-men aren’t going to get their mugs without a fight for them, I’m thinking.”

“Who’s in the running?” Stearns asked, eagerly. Once more the first men were coming down the home-stretch. But now the order was changed. The black-haired sophomore was not in sight, but in his place sped Hooker, an easy, confident smile on his face. On his heels was Rindgely. Then came the junior, Harris, and beside him, fighting for the pole, was a little plump senior. Behind this pair and about five yards distant was the long-legged freshman. His head was held well, but his breathing was loud and tortured. Stearns looked each man over searchingly. Then he turned to the trainer.

“Last lap! Last lap!” was the cry.

“Say, Billy, you don’t mean Harris?” shouted Stearns when he could make himself heard.

Kernahan shook his head.

“Then who?”

“Keep your eyes on Ware,” said the trainer.

“Ware? Who the dickens is Ware?” asked Stearns. But the trainer was scattering the spectators from beside the finish, and so paid no heed. The stragglers were passing now and the crowd was speeding them along with announcements that the last lap had begun and with mildly ironical injunctions to “move up head” or “cut across the field.” Then all eyes were turned to the back-stretch, where the five leaders, survivors of a field of some fifteen, were racing along, dim whitish forms in the evening twilight. Hooker was setting a hot pace now, and the gaps were lengthening. But as the last turn was reached the figures changed their positions; some one dropped back; some one else moved suddenly to the front. But it was all a blur and the identity of the runners could be only surmised.

“That’s Rindgely taking the lead, I guess,” said Stearns. “That means that Hooker’s to sprint the last fifty yards or so and get first. But I’d like to know who Ware is. Do you know?”

Clarke shook his head.

“Search me,” he answered. “Maybe it’s the long-legged chap. He’s still in the bunch, I think.”

“Yes, but he was just about done up when the last lap was finished. Did you notice? He was gasping. Where’s Billy?”

“Over there at the mark. He’s holding a watch; if you speak to him now he’ll jump down your throat. Here they come. Let’s move over here where we can see.”

“Well, whoever’s in the lead is making a mighty painful pace for the finish of the mile,” exclaimed the captain. “Seems to me he’s ’way ahead, too!”

“It isn’t Rindgely,” said Clarke, decisively. “It must be – ”

“Come on, Freshman!” cried a mighty voice at Clarke’s elbow, and a big broad-shouldered youth crashed by, sending the editor of the Purple reeling on to the cinders, from where he was pulled back by Stearns. Clarke glared around in search of the cause of his ignominious performance, and saw him standing, a whole head above the crowd, a few paces away at the edge of the track. He seemed to be quite unconscious of Clarke’s anger. Leaning out over the cinders, he was waving a big hand and bellowing in a voice that drowned all other cries:

“Come on, Freshman! Dig your spurs in! Whoo-ee! ”

Clarke’s anger gave way to excitement. Down the home-stretch came the runners, sprinting for the mark. Stearns was shouting unintelligible things at his side and apparently trying to climb his back in order to see the finish. The throng was yelling for Hooker, for Rindgely, for Harris.

And then, suddenly, comparative silence fell. Twenty yards away the runners became recognizable. The crowd stared in wonderment. Well in the lead and increasing that lead with every long, perfect stride came an unknown, a youth with pale cheeks disked with crimson, a youth of medium height with lithe body and long legs that were working like parts of machinery. Back of him ran Hooker; beyond, dim figures told of a struggle between Rindgely and the junior for third place. It was the stentorian voice of the big fellow at the edge of the track that broke the momentary silence of surprise.

“Pull up, Freshman, it’s all yours!” it shouted.

Then confusion reigned. The little throng raced along the track toward the finish. Hooker’s friends urged him to win, while others applauded the unknown. And in a second it was all over, mile race and fall meeting. A white-clad form sped across the finish six yards in the lead, tossed his arms in air, swerved to the left, and pitched blindly into the throng.

“What’s the matter with Seven?” shrieked a small youth at Stearns’s elbow. The track-team captain turned.

“Who was that fellow that won?” he demanded.

“Ware,” was the jubilant reply. “Ware, ’07!”

When Allan Ware recovered enough to take an interest in things he found himself lying in the dressing-tent with some one – it afterward proved to be Harris – striving to draw a coat from under him. No one was paying any special attention to him, and the tent was filled with the hard breathing of the runners, who were now only intent upon getting into their clothes. Allan took a deep breath and obligingly rolled over so that Harris could have his coat. Then he sat up.

He had not fainted at the end of the race; it is very seldom that a runner loses consciousness, no matter how hard or prolonged the struggle has been. The collapse is produced by oppression of the chest, less frequently of the heart in particular, and the consequent difficulty of breathing is the most painful feature of it. Allan had been dimly aware from the moment he pitched into the throng until now of what had passed, but his interest in events had been slight; he knew that arms had reached out and saved him from falling and that some one – a very strong some one, evidently – had picked him up like a feather and carried him the short distance to the tent. Allan wondered, now that he could breathe again without exertion, who the fellow had been.

Every one was intent upon dressing and no one looked as though expecting thanks. Rindgely, still blowing like a porpoise, was balancing himself on one leg and trying to thrust the other into his trousers, while he explained to Hooker that the track was like mush and no one should be expected to run on it. Hooker, looking amused, grunted as he pulled his shirt over his head. Allan scrambled to his feet and began to dress. He couldn’t help wondering what the others thought of his victory; it seemed rather important to him, but he had never won a race before, although he had taken part in a good many, and so it probably appeared more wonderful than it really was. The trainer stuck his head in at the door.

“Hurry up, now,” he commanded. “Get up to the gym, and don’t be afraid of the water when you get there.”

This familiar formula met with the usual groans and hoots, and Kernahan grinned about the tent. Starting to withdraw his bullet-shaped head with its scant adornment of carroty hair, the trainer’s eyes fell on Allan. He picked his way over the tangle of legs.