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CHAPTER XVII
ON THE CINDER TRACK

One morning in late March the earth awoke to find that during the night a little south wind had melted the last vestige of ice and snow in the shaded corners, and that Spring was busy cleansing the land ere beginning her housekeeping. The gravel walks were soft underfoot and little blue ribbons of water trickled across them. The willows in the meadow at the base of the hill had suddenly put on their vernal costume of tender russet, and the campus, a veritable quagmire for the nonce, was doffing its faded livery, and, to the close observer, revealing in favored hollows and sheltered slopes a garb of soft green velvet. Along the station road the thrush proclaimed its pleasure at the new order of things in clear, sweet notes that trembled in the soft air like intangible sunflecks. The river rehearsed in gentle murmurs a new song as it rippled past island and point, and reflected on its bright surface the tender blue of the sky and the fleecy whiteness of the slowly sailing clouds. Spring had come in the valley of the Hudson.

And never was spring more welcome. The winter had been severe and protracted, and to youth and health the enforced captivity indoors had long since grown irksome. Suddenly the boathouse became the scene of much activity and the two crews took to the water with all the delight of young ducks, and the sound of oars and of the coxswains’ voices floated up from the river every afternoon. Baseballs and bats made their appearance and swept through the school like an epidemic. The campus became the center of Academy life, and the golf links was dotted with enthusiastic players. As soon as the cinder track had dried sufficiently Professor Beck and his charges took possession, and outdoor training began with spirit.

The winter term came to an end, and spring vacation depopulated the school for the better part of a week. Don and Paddy both went home for an “over Sunday” visit, the former’s duties as captain of the track team precluding a more extended absence, and the latter’s dislike to be away from Dave for any length of time causing him to cut his presence in the bosom of his family to the shortest possible length. Dave stayed at Hillton and Wayne kept him company. Both kept up their training about as they would have done had no vacation been in progress. Wayne had now attained to a development of lung power that satisfied even Professor Beck, and his triweekly performances on the gymnasium running track had given place to almost daily walks over the country roads or across fields; often there was a little cross-country run participated in by Wayne and others. No effort was made to cover the distance quickly, and the instructions were to avoid hard running; so the lads trotted easily over a two-mile course in a bunch and had plenty of fun at the hazards, and came puffing up to the gymnasium together with reddened cheeks and tingling bodies to undergo the delights of a shower bath and a subsequent rubbing down that sent them to supper with the appetites of young bears.

But with the commencement of the spring term the walks were superseded by almost daily work on the track. The cross-country trips became regular events for the first and latter part of the week, and were varied in distance from time to time. Often Wayne was the only one of the “milers” or “half milers” to take the run; sometimes he was accompanied by Whitehead, a promising junior class youth; and less often the entire group of candidates were out. But whether the others were sent across the fields or not, Wayne was never allowed to miss a run.

“You see, Gordon,” Professor Beck explained one day, “we have a way of classing fellows into three temperaments – the sanguine, the bilious, and the lymphatic; often the classification is difficult to make, but in your case it is extremely easy. You belong in the bilious class; constitution tough and capable of severe tasks and prolonged effort; circulation sluggish; disposition naturally persevering and ob – ahem! – inflexible; requires plenty of good food and lots of exercise. You and Whitehead are the only distance men that I can rightly class as bilious; Whitehead is less so than you; there is also something of the sanguine in his make-up. So, my boy, that is why I keep you tussling with cross-country work while the others are on the track. No two men or boys, dogs or horses, require the same training in every particular. Your friend Cunningham is rather of a sanguine disposition; he’s a brilliant performer at whatever he takes hold of; he can go over the one-hundred-and-twenty-yard hurdles in the finest form; but if he tried to take an oar in a two-mile boat race he would in all probability slump in his work before the race was won. The sanguine man is a man of dash and spirit, and is, as a rule, incapable of prolonged effort; he makes a good sprinter, but a poor long-distance runner.”

“But Don is a good cross-country runner,” objected Wayne.

“No, he’s not; that is, he’s a good cross-country runner for the reason that he is an excellent jumper and hurdler, and makes up by his speed over obstacles what he loses on the flat; but he’s only a fair cross-country man because he is worn out at the end of the second mile; after that, to the finish, he has to depend on nerve and ‘sand.’ Two years ago he managed to finish second, how I scarcely know. This last fall, of the four men who finished first, three were distinctly of a bilious temperament, and one, Northrop, fairly lymphatic. Of course, to this, as to all other rules, there are exceptions; but it’s a rule that holds generally true. To the sanguine temperament we look for speed, to the bilious for endurance, to the lymphatic for nerve.”

On the days when the cross-country run was not in order Wayne went with the other fellows to the track and practiced starting, and afterward ran varying distances on the cinders. The latter work Wayne liked, for, although he had not as yet been allowed to go over three fourths of a mile, and though Professor Beck had never yet told him what time he made, he felt that he was at last getting in touch with real work. Often he was one of a little bunch of half milers and milers, and there was a pleasurable intoxication in working past this runner or that, and, as sometimes happened, finishing well in the lead. Professor Beck’s sole comments at the end of a performance of this sort was a brief “Well done, Gordon,” or an almost equally laconic “Try to better that to-morrow.”

But of criticism before and during the practice there was plenty. “Arms down, Gordon!” “That stride’s too short; lengthen out! lengthen out!” “You’re running too fast, Gordon. Ease up on this lap.” “Put your head back so you can breathe, and, for goodness’ sake, keep your arms down!”

But the latter injunction seemed to be always wasted. Try as he would – and he did try – Wayne’s arms could not be made to hang; they always, sooner or later, got glued to his breast, making him look – so Don said – as though he had a pain. Professor Beck reprimanded and scowled and growled, but to no purpose. Wayne replied that he could run better with his arms against his body, and he didn’t see what difference it made. Professor Beck explained all over again that his lungs ought to have free play and that by keeping his arms and shoulders back they were unrestricted.

“But I’m more comfortable that way,” Wayne pleaded. And the professor would smile in exasperation and beg him to try the other way “if you please, Gordon!” And Wayne would promise and forthwith try, and in the middle of a two-third-mile run discover to his amazement that his clinched hands were as tightly glued to his chest as ever!

But aside from this defection Wayne’s performance was promising and Don was delighted. “You’ll make the team sure,” he declared. “And if you do you’re almost certain of a first or second place. Neither St. Eustace nor Warrenton has a first-class miler. You and young Whitehead, and possibly Banks, will make a good trio.”

But if running on the cinder track pleased Wayne the daily practice at starting equally displeased him. It was exasperating and tiresome work, but there was a good fifteen minutes of it every afternoon, and Wayne had a lot to learn. In squads of four or five the runners and jumpers were placed at the mark and sent off at the report of a pistol. The sprinters and hurdlers were instructed in the crouching, and the long-distance men and the jumpers in the standing start. Time and again Wayne, with his left foot on the mark, his body thrown forward, and his ears straining for the report of the pistol in Professor Beck’s hand, would for a single instant relax his vigilance, when —bang! and off would go the rest of the squad a good yard or more ahead of him! And when they all came trotting back for another try Professor Beck would inquire politely:

“Asleep, Gordon?”

Perhaps on the next attempt, mindful of his previous error, Wayne would offend in the opposite direction and start with a wild plunge down the track only to realize that the pistol report which he had seemed to hear was only a thing of imagination born of strained nerves and muscles. Then he would crawl shamefacedly back to meet the grins of the other chaps and to hear Professor Beck remark pleasantly:

“I see you’ve woke up, Gordon.”

But there was one thing that acted as a solace: a good start was always applauded by the professor; perhaps in only two words, but worth to the boy whole sentences of praise or compliment. And, besides, his work was not so hard as that of the sprinters, who were forced to crouch like monkeys or cats – Wayne was never able to decide which they most resembled – for long seconds at a time, only to have the signal come when they had shifted their weight for a second from legs to arms, and to either leave them dazed on their mark or to send them sprawling on the cinders. That, at least, was spared him. He was not the only one of the many candidates for track honors that made a muddle of starting, but, as Don cheerfully told him after a specially disastrous afternoon, “there was no other fellow in the lot who could start wrong and do it with such infinite variety.”

But Don was often sorely tried and perplexed in those days of early training, and the unnecessary candor of the remark may be forgiven him. Don had his own training to go through with, and was besides compelled to take an active part in the training of others. The hurdlers and jumpers in especial were under his instruction, while, nominally at least, he was responsible for the proper work of all the candidates. Dave alone appeared undisturbed by events. At least four times a week he practiced with the hammer, Professor Beck viewing his performances with scarce concealed displeasure. For Dave’s hammer throwing did not improve as the season wore on. Of the two other aspirants for success at the sport, one, Hardy, had already equaled Dave’s best throw that spring; and the other, Kendall, gave promise of speedily attaining a like degree of proficiency. But Dave did not believe in worrying; he only tried his best, put every scrap of strength into his efforts, tossed the twelve-pound ball and wire away over the grass as though it were the veriest plaything, and then exhibited neither surprise nor disappointment when measurement revealed the fact that once again he had failed to equal his own not overgood record made in the interscholastic meet the year before. Instead of fretting Dave worked the harder, and if honest endeavor deserves reward Dave should have captured the championship.

Week after week of good, bright weather, sometimes brisk with north winds, but never disagreeable, came and went. Wayne ran one-hundred-yard dashes, trotted slow miles, sped over moderate three quarters – always with a jolly sprint for the last forty or fifty yards – went jogging across country over fences, hedges, and brooks, put in a bad quarter of an hour in front of the starter’s pistol, occasionally had a whole day of rest, and every night settled down to his studies with a cool, clear brain and a splendid absence of nerves. And one day the entries for the spring handicap meeting were posted and all the candidates for athletic honors went at their training harder than ever.

CHAPTER XVIII
DON LOSES HIS TEMPER

“Connor, you and Middleton will try the full flight together. Get on your mark, and I’ll start you in a minute. Perkins, you took the full distance yesterday, didn’t you? Well, report to Mr. Beck, please, for starting; and you’d better go a hundred and twenty on the flat at about a sixteen-second clip. Hello, Wayne, aren’t you working to-day?”

Wayne suited his step to Don’s and trotted up the track with him to where Connor and Middleton were waiting at the far end of the long line of hurdles.

“I guess so; after a while. Beck’s busy with the broad jumpers. Are you going over the hurdles?”

“If I get a chance. Hang it, I haven’t had any time to practice this week. Connor and Middleton have taken up every minute, and they’re awful duffers at hurdling. Perkins is a good man, though; he just passed you a minute ago. Wait until I get these fellows off and I’ll talk to you.”

Don went to the starting line and Wayne, drawing his coat more closely about his running costume, perched himself on an unused hurdle at the side of the track and looked on. Don took a small revolver from his pocket and stationed himself behind the two hurdlers.

“Both you fellows must try and get over the hurdles lower. Remember that it doesn’t matter if you strike them; it won’t hurt you. Connor, you start well and make your first hurdle all right, but after that you get ragged. Keep your pace up to the end; you ought to finish just as fast as you begin. Middleton, you haven’t got your pace right yet. Your first two steps are always too short, and the result is that your third leaves you too far from the hurdle. You must correct that. I’ll give you both two tries over the full flight. This time take it easy and be careful. On your mark! Set!”

Bang! went the little pistol and the two hurdlers dashed forward toward the first of the three-feet-six-inch obstacles. Don ran alongside on the cinders, watching their performance and shouting instructions.

“Higher next time, Connor, by a half inch.” “Lengthen your stride, Middleton.” “Take your time, both of you.” “That’s better, Connor; good work. Don’t stop; keep on to the finish!”

The three hurdlers came slowly back, listening in patient and respectful attention to Don’s criticisms, and again dug their spikes into the cinders at the mark, crouching low and practicing little starts. Don called to Wayne.

“I’m going over them once, Wayne, to show these chaps what I’ve been talking about. Will you start me?”

Wayne hurried up and took the pistol.

“You fellows,” continued Don, turning to the two tyros, “had better run along and watch me over the hurdles. You’ll see what I mean by jumping low, and you, Middleton, had better watch my stride. All ready, Wayne.”

The latter cocked the pistol. “On your mark! Set!”

At the report of the pistol Don straightened himself quickly from his crouching position and tore lightly down on the first of the ten hurdles, springing off the right foot, turning his body slightly to the right and clearing the bar with a long, low, graceful rise that was scarcely more than a stride. Three long steps and he was again in the air, his rear ankle just tipping the wood as he landed on the ball of his right foot and sped on, apparently without effort. Again and again his white-clad form rose and fell down the line of hurdles until the last one was surmounted and he had crossed the finish running like a deer, swiftly and lightly. Then with a series of high, shortening strides he gradually slowed down and turned back.

“Isn’t it pretty, the way he does that?” said a voice in Wayne’s ear, and the latter turned to find Paddy beside him.

“You bet it is!” answered Wayne warmly. “I wish I could do it!”

“Ever try?”

“No; did you?”

“Once; last year. Don had five hurdles set up out here, and I told him I’d beat him over if he’d give me a start. So I tried. He waited until I was over the first hurdle. Then he started.” Paddy paused and grinned reminiscently.

“Who won?”

“There wasn’t any race, me boy. The spalpeen went across the finish while I was trying to pick myself out of the third hurdle. You see, I got over the first all right, but when I reached the second there was something wrong; I had too many feet or – or something; and I got there on the wrong one. I finally jumped off one of them – I think it was the left hind foot – knocked the hurdle over, ran for the next one, landed on top of it, and then – well, then the hurdle and I were all mixed up together. I think it struck me, but I’m not sure. Oh, hurdle racing is something that I wasn’t cut out for. I’m quite willing that Don should do my share.”

Don and the other two lads came up while Wayne was still laughing over Paddy’s narrative, and, yielding the pistol, Wayne stood aside and watched the next trial. Don got into his overcoat again and Connor and Middleton crouched at the mark.

“Now, see what you can do,” said Don. “I’ll tell you frankly that neither of you can make the team on such work as you’ve done up to date. So, for goodness’ sake, put brains into your hurdling. I’ll time you this try, and the fellow that finishes second will have to work hard next week if he wants to go to the interscholastic meeting.”

Once more the pistol sounded, the two boys left the mark as though shot from a cannon, and together took the first two bars. Then Middleton began to drop behind, and at the last hurdle was a long two yards to the rear of Connor, who finished well and strongly.

“Nineteen and a fifth,” called Don. “Slow work that. But you both showed improvement. Your stride’s all wrong yet, though, Middleton; two short at first; nothing even; you’ll get beaten every time until you mend it. I won’t try you over the full flight again until you’ve had a full week’s work learning the stride. Monday you’d better go back to the low hurdles again and try taking about three of them. That’s all to-day.”

Middleton and Connor, the former looking very meek, seized their wraps and trotted away toward the dressing room. Don joined Wayne and Paddy on the top of the hurdle and the three swung their legs and chatted until Professor Beck approached and summoned Wayne to the starting line of the mile.

It was Saturday afternoon, a week from the date of the handicap meeting, and the track candidates were out in full force. Groups of white-clad boys dotted the field. The broad jumpers and the pole vaulters were busy near by; several sprinters were trotting toward the grand stand after their trials; the hammer and shot candidates were hard at work; a number of fellows were jogging about the track; on the gridiron the spring football squad was learning the rudiments of the game, and the sound of the bat broke sharply on the air now and then where the baseball candidates were at practice. On the links a number of figures moved hither and thither at the will of the speeding white spheres. The scene was a bright and busy one, and overhead the blue April sky arched cloudless from hill to mountain.

“Gordon, get your coat off and limber up,” commanded Professor Beck. “I want you to run your distance to-day on time.”

Wayne threw aside his coat, looked to his running shoes, and trotted down the cinders to the one-hundred-yard post and back again, stretching his muscles and relishing the faint gritting sound that his shoes made on the smooth, level path. Then he got on his mark and listened to the professor’s directions.

“I’ll tell you your time after each quarter,” he announced. “I want you to study it and your pace so that you will be able in a race to judge accurately how fast you are going. Get away quickly and get a good steady pace by the end of the first sixty yards. Remember you’ve got a quarter of a mile farther to run than you’re used to. And remember, too, that on the last half lap you must increase your speed. Keep that in mind and save enough strength for a good hard spurt at the finish. Sutton will pace you on the last quarter. On your mark!”

Wayne sped away from a good start, and, according to directions, found a steady pace ere the end of the first half minute, and ran in good form. At the end of the first quarter Professor Beck announced the time and bade him to slow up a little. The half mile was accomplished well under 2.28. When he reached the line at the end of the third quarter Sutton was waiting and started off beside him at a pace that made Wayne’s eyes open. But he did not try to overhaul the fleet-footed four-hundred-and-forty-yard runner at once, but ran well within himself and saved his strength for the last half lap. He began to feel the pace now, and his feet showed a tendency to drag. As he passed the line on the next to the last lap some twenty yards behind the middle-distance man Professor Beck was waiting watch in hand.

“All right,” he called. “Don’t hurry until you turn for the finish.”

Around the track for the last time the two runners went. Sutton increased his pace and his lead about halfway down the back stretch. Overcoming the impulse to try and run him down then, Wayne kept up his steady, moderate pace until the turn toward the finish. Then he called on his reserve strength and spurted forward, making a fine race to the tape and finishing well up behind the speedy Sutton. As he trotted back to the line Professor Beck met him.

“Your time was five minutes and twenty seconds, Gordon. Try and remember your speed, so that next time you will be able to regulate your pace by to-day’s performance. You kept your arms up as usual and your second quarter was a bit too fast. Next time try and run it about five seconds slower, and put that five seconds into the finish. I expect you to cut that time down by at least fifteen seconds before the meet. That’s all this afternoon. Work yourself easy the first of next week; I think I’d leave out the cross-country run Monday and do about two miles slow on the track. I’ll give you another trial on Thursday.”

Wayne trotted away to the gymnasium, had a refreshing shower and rub down, and had done a full hour’s work at his studies when Don came in at dusk. The latter was not satisfied with his chum’s performance.

“You’ll have to beat that, Wayne. Sturgis, of St. Eustace, ran the mile last year easily in 5.02⅕,” he said. “And Warrenton has men that can do nearly as well. But it’s early yet. I do wish you’d get out of the habit of hugging yourself. I watched you this afternoon. You had your hands over your lungs during the whole last half of the mile.”

“Hang it,” Wayne responded, “you and Beck are awful cranks! I tell you that I can run better that way. I’ve tried letting my arms swing, and it won’t work.”

“No one wants you to swing your arms,” answered Don. “Just let them alone and they’ll look after themselves. Only, for goodness’ sake stop putting them on your chest and loading your lungs down!”

“I don’t load my lungs down,” answered Wayne a trifle shortly. “My lungs are all right. I had plenty of breath when I finished to-day to run another mile.”

“All right; but you wait and see, my boy. Folks that have been at the business longer than you know more about it, I guess; and you’ll discover some fine day that you’ve just thrown away your chances of doing something by sticking to a habit that you could easily break yourself of now if you’d try.”

“I have tried; I can’t run any other way.”

“You haven’t tried hard enough. It’s nonsense to say that you can’t keep your arms off your chest; you just won’t!”

Wayne retired behind his Cæsar in silent dignity, and Don, his temper worn by the day’s labor with the hurdlers and jumpers, isolated himself in his window seat and scowled over his history of Greece until hunger drove both to supper, by which time the small quarrel was forgotten and the two raced downstairs and across to Turner Hall in the best of spirits.