Introductory material (continued 3)

But Teddy had for the moment quite forgotten her. He was bent over his mark, his eyes straight ahead, ready for the first sound of the pistol, for his instructions were to take the lead from the beginning.

There was a strapping field of a dozen or more, but most of the others were prepared to take the customary start for a "half"—easy away, and fast work when heart and lungs had worked up to it.

"Marks! Set!" the crack of the pistol, and Teddy shot out as if for a sprint, slowing immediately, however, when he had taken his place.

Bates pulled out of the ruck at the turn, and fell in behind him, following orders. Round the track they swung, stringing out, one and another coming up and going back as if on wires, but Teddy and Bates holding the lead. My watch showed fifty-eight and three-quarters as they finished the first lap, a beautiful performance on Teddy's part, though I had expected it, for he was a connoisseur on time, if I ever saw one.

There followed them over, and close up, a cadaverous-looking man from one of the minor colleges, whose style I did not like, but who was going very strong, and whom I might have thought dangerous had I not been told he never finished. Sherman was twenty-five yards back, in the rear of the lot, and running in a very hopeless fashion.

I was relieved to see how well Teddy did his work, and noticed the slight flush on his cheeks as he passed.

I could see that Mollie Kittredge too had a little added color in her cheeks, but in no other way did she show any particular interest in the race.

For the first half of the second lap our programme was followed out all right, Atherton still leading at a lively clip, Bates right at his heels, and the tall outsider barely holding his own.

Then the unexpected happened. Bates began to show signs of tiring, fell back inch by inch, and the tall outsider came up at the same rate. Just before the lower turn they got together, and there was a short struggle; but Bates was as arrant a cur as ever wore a shoe, and he yielded the place, though he had strength enough to run another lap, had he the heart to go with it.

Teddy was, perhaps, five yards to the good when he swung into the stretch, and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his college mate close up and ready to take up the running. Instead, he saw an unexpected contestant, coming fast, and Bates was full five yards behind, slowing, and evidently out of it.

Now Atherton was, of course, well-nigh spent; he had followed instructions to the dot, and was not expected to finish.

There was a half-second's hesitation and a look of fear; but as quick as he realized the conditions, the little fellow swung his face to the front and set his teeth with the evident determination of making a fight for the race.

A mighty cheer went up from the spectators, for Teddy had many friends, and the whole college knew under what circumstances he was running; but I doubt if he heard anything but the crunch, crunch, crunch of the swift feet behind him. I knew it was a hopeless task, for his opponent was fresh as paint, and full of running. Gradually his longer stride drew him up, but when he tried to pass, Teddy still had a word to say, and met him with the most stubborn resistance. He was almost gone, his face white as death, his eyes glazed, and he kept his speed only by sheer force of will.

Somehow, I know not how, for I could hardly have taken my eyes from the runners, I knew that Mollie Kittredge was on her feet with a look of horror in her face.

Down the stretch they came, the little fellow with the drawn cheeks, and his opponent tall and strong and confident. Side by side they came, neither gaining, until perhaps fifteen yards from the finish, when the big fellow shot by.

Teddy staggered on, but lurched forward, and fell, a few feet short of the line, just as the winner broke the tape.

He fell without an effort to save himself, plowing through the cinders with his white face. There was a convulsive struggle to crawl over, and then he lay still, dead to the world, with one hand stretched out toward the line.

The half-dozen who finished ran by the motionless figure, and I was over it a second after. Tom Furness was almost as soon as myself, and together we lifted and placed it on the soft turf inside the track. We were surrounded by a crowd of contestants and track officials, but a cry, followed by a commotion in the grand stand, drew their attention, and we were left alone.

So full of agony was the cry, that I looked up myself, and was just in time to see the statuesque Mollie throw up her hands and fall back in a dead faint. Yes, blondes have hearts, after all.

We were not much troubled by the crowd, for they thought it was only a man "run out," and that he would be all right in a minute or two, and walk off as well as ever.

Alas! I knew better; it was a bad case, and I could find little sign of life in the limp body. We made an effort to revive him, but Tom could not get a drop from his flask through the clenched teeth, and one side of the face was bleeding, where it had slid over the cinders. The crowd was coming back, the spectators were beginning to notice us, so I told Tom to take the legs, and I took the head and shoulders, and we started for the dressing-rooms.

A pathetically light weight was it, and I was heart-sick, for, though one hand was over the heart, I could feel no motion through the thin jersey. "Doc" joined us at the door, and I was never so pleased to see any one in my life, for I knew that he would do all that could be done, and we need not experiment with some one we did not know.

When we got into a quiet room we placed Teddy on a rubbing-couch, and "Doc" immediately applied the most powerful remedies to revive him. They were at first unsuccessful, but by hypodermic injections of strychnine and brandy, the wearied heart and lungs were at last induced to start feebly on their accustomed tasks.

We were standing by the couch, watching the hint of color grow in the boy's cheeks, when suddenly the limp figure made a convulsive effort (consciousness taking up the thread where it had been broken, a few feet short of the tape), and he almost lifted himself to his feet before we could catch him. As he fell back in our arms, there came to his lips the bright-red blood-spots, precursors of a fearful hemorrhage.

It was almost impossible for us to check it, for the boy was delirious, would not lie still, and kept saying in a determined way, "I will win! I must win!"

He would turn his head, and call, "Bates! Bates!" in a frenzy of fear and disappointment. "Bates, where are you? My God, where are you? I'm sure I followed orders, and did not come too fast."

Then he would find Bates, and say contentedly, "There you are, old man, close up; I'll drop out now, I'm almost gone; push out and win."

Suddenly he would discover it was the outsider, and would cry out with fevered lips, and try to break away from us and run.

Then he would lie still, but in his mind was going over the agony of the finish again and again. He would turn to me and say excitedly, "You told me I need not finish. I can't run the 'half,' and you know it. It's dark, and they have run off with the tape. I finished long ago, and still you make me run."

Sometimes he would drop his hands and say despairingly, "I cannot do it, I cannot reach the worsted; O God, I cannot!"

Then he would discover Tom, who was almost as crazy as Teddy himself, and had been utterly useless from the time the hemorrhage set in. He would say to Tom, "Don't look at me like that, old man; I know I lost the race, but I did my best, my very best, and ran clear out. Look at my cheek, where I fell; you must see I was dead beat." He would try to argue with Tom, who had not a word to say, except of sorrow and self-reproach. He would look at Tom, and say, "Perhaps you're right, and I'll not complain, but why did you tell me to set pace, if you meant to make me finish?" Or he would say over and over again, "I was not strong enough; I did the best I could; I did the best I could."

Indeed, he did not cease talking all the time we were with him, until he was given opiates and taken to the hospital.

Here he spent many weary weeks, and was only pulled through after the most persistent care. But though he got on his feet again, he did not fully recover, and even a long trip to the Bermudas did not get his lungs in shape. He spent some months in Southern California, and settled finally among the Carolina hills, the nearest point to his old New England home, where he could expect to prolong his days.

I have seen many gallant winners, many whose courage and determination made them such; but when I tell the story that comes closest to my heart, I tell of one a notch above them all. I tell of Teddy Atherton, of his last "half" which he lost.

There were three of us in my office at the gymnasium. It was late afternoon of a February day. The hail was beating against my windows, and a punching-bag was drumming the "devil's tattoo" in the next room. There were all sorts of sounds outside, from the clatter of pulley weights dropped on the floor to the steady tramp of the runner's feet on the track overhead, but in my room a Sabbath stillness reigned.

Fred Seever was perched on a chair in one corner ready dressed for departure, and N. P. Sawyer, familiarly known as "Shack," sat on the weighing scales clad only in trunks, jersey, and an air of melancholy. It would not have been a comfortable seat for most anatomies, and the metal work must have felt chilly; but Shack had eccentric tastes, and never occupied a chair if he could find anything else to hold him.

I had just remarked in the quietest manner possible, "It is pretty well settled that Seever does not run this year." This was the cause of Shack's melancholy and Seever's silence.

"Well, if that's the verdict," said Seever, with considerable heat for one so quiet, "it's mighty hard lines, and a blooming hothouse plant it makes of me. I've been planning the whole year to get back at the Dutchman, and now at the last moment you say I don't start."

"Yes," spoke up Shack, "you should get a glass case for the dear boy, and put him in it, labelled 'Rare Specimen,' 'A Runner too Good to Run.'" He followed up this ingenious suggestion by untangling his long legs, rising slowly to his feet, and suddenly throwing a stray boxing-glove which he had picked up from the floor, hitting the "Rare Specimen" a blow in the short ribs that brought forth an involuntary grunt. "By the way, Professor," he continued, "do you think it quite safe for a little chap like me to toy with a sixteen-pound shot? Mightn't I drop it on my precious toes some day?"

"I've told you my reasons plainly enough," I answered, looking up from my desk and laughing at big Shack in spite of myself. "You remember last year. Seever went into this same 'mile handicap,' running from scratch. There were thirty-odd entries, and he was blocked, elbowed, and pocketed all the way through, getting a toss from Kitson in the last lap that sent him rolling into a corner with skin enough off his knees to make parchment for his diploma."

"I wasn't hurt, though," argued Seever, "only sore for a few days."

"'Twas luck that saved you then," I answered; "suppose you'd broken a leg, as you might easily have done on that hardwood floor, where would we have been at Mott Haven, with not a man jack of you good for four-thirty?"

"Give it up," said Shack. "Did you notice that the same field, too, let the Dutchman through like a greased pig? Hartman had half a dozen club mates in the lot, and as many more were quite willing to do all within the law to keep a college man out of it."

"Well," continued I, "Fred Seever is neither a wrestler nor a football player. These indoor games are all right, and for the average man there is no better place to learn quickness than in a mob of runners swinging round the raised corners of a slippery board track. But Fred has had experience enough, and is sure to appear on the cinder-path with the warm spring days in good condition if left entirely to himself. In the second place, he is too slender to take any chances."

"Yes," interrupted Shack, "those pipe-stem legs are marked 'breakable.'"

I concluded with, "The verdict is that, unless I have some good reason to change my mind, Seever's name will certainly be scratched."

At this there was a dead silence. Shack looked at Seever questioningly, then shook his head, and began to whistle "Ben Bolt" in a particularly dismal manner.

When I found they had nothing more to say, I resumed my examination of the list of entries to the first big "Indoor Athletic Games" of the season. I had just received it from the "official handicapper," and was considerably interested to find what my men had been given. They figured in every handicap, and in the "forty-yard novice" there were no less than fourteen of them, nearly all Freshmen, with two or three who would show a turn of speed. There were a few I did not intend should run, among them Seever, for the reasons I had already given.

These games are a perfect godsend to a trainer, coming as they do at a time when it is very hard to keep the men up to their work. The gymnasium is indispensable in a country where from December to April the cinder-path is either hard with frost or white with snow. But when a man has done his fifteen minutes at the pulley weights for the hundredth consecutive afternoon, he finds the excitement of "One, two, three, four, five, six," begins to pall on him, and by the last of February even "practising starts" loses its charms. It is then the circuit of a billiard-table becomes the favorite track work, and the digestion of a good dinner the principal muscular exercise.

I had checked off about half the names, finding few surprises, when the quiet of my room was broken by the entrance of a dozen fellows who had just learned of the arrival of the list. Did you ever hear the work of that very conscientious gentleman the "official handicapper" discussed by a crowd of contestants? Of half a dozen men perhaps one is pleased and says so, two or three have no fault to find but do nevertheless grumble out of principle, and the remainder "kick like veteran mules," and blackguard in shameful fashion the man whose only sin has been to overrate their abilities.

"What's this?" cried Ferris, a high jumper, looking over my shoulder. "I get only four inches, and Bob here gets six. That's highway robbery, and I don't care who knows it. He did five-eight to my five-seven only yesterday."

"Here's little Larry with five yards in the 'forty,'" spoke up Shack, who had monopolized the view from my right side, his broad shoulders shutting off all the rest; "the infant won't do a thing to them, will he?"

"What do you get yourself?" inquired Turner, who was bigger than Shack, but not quite quick enough to get a place of vantage.

"That's what I ought to be looking for," answered Shack, "but I always think of others first. They'll put something of that kind on my tombstone. Where's the 'shot'?" He ran his big finger down the page, remarking meanwhile, "I gave Jones [the handicapper] a good cigar only last week, and told him that I had not been myself the whole winter." Shack said this with a deep sigh, as if he well knew he was threatened with an early decline. "I expect to find nothing less than the same old eight feet for yours truly." His finger suddenly stopped, as he said this, and then straightening himself with an energy that sent two or three men flying backward, he exclaimed: "Great Jupiter! Look at that! Only look at that! And 'twas a good cigar too. He gives me just four feet, the least of any of you, and Turner here, who tied me this afternoon, gets the eight instead." At this there was a big laugh at Shack, whose woes were a joke to all.

Down the list they went until all were informed, and then they gradually sifted out, leaving Seever and Shack still with me. I could not understand why they stayed, for they knew well enough that further argument would be useless; but I paid no attention to them, going on with my checking.

The "mile handicap" was almost the last event. I crossed out Seever's name, which figured alone at "scratch," saw that Hartman had his twenty-five yards, the same as last year, marked off Root at fifty and Murphy at seventy yards, and then suddenly discovered, just below, the names of G. Turner and N. P. Sawyer with the same allowances. To say I was surprised would but faintly express my feeling, as Turner was a shot and hammer man who had played football, weighed nearly one hundred and ninety pounds, and had never to my knowledge run a yard on a track in his life. N. P. Sawyer was the seldom used patronymic of Shack, who had resumed his seat on the scales in the corner, and was evidently by his air of expectancy waiting for an explosion. I had sent in neither name, and was utterly at sea regarding the whole affair.

"Well, Sawyer," said I, turning rather abruptly toward him, "what does this mean?"

"Simply this," replied Shack, very frankly, as if he had expected the question and had his answer ready,—"simply this, that I thought we would pay the devil in his own coin, and give Hartman and his fellow-pirates of the 'Rowing Club' a taste of their medicine; let the Dutchman carom against Turner and myself a few times, permit Kitson to enjoy the experience of a tumble like that he gave Fred last year, and carry the latter bit of 'rare porcelain' through the mob without getting chipped."

"A very pretty plan," I remarked sarcastically, "but why was I not consulted in the matter?"

"Simply because we were doubtful of your consent, and wished to get as far along as possible before we had our little talk with you."

"Of course," remarked Seever, "we knew you would have the final word to say, but we thought you would prefer not to have the plan yours, and to be able to say that you did not even send in the entries."

"That was certainly very thoughtful of you."

"Yes," interposed Shack, "there is a remote chance of a little 'shindy' when the 'Heavy Brigade' gets well started."

"If you and Turner are mixed up in it, I should think the chances considerably more than even," I remarked; "but why in the world did two ice-wagons like you and Turner go into it? You can neither of you run a mile in ten minutes."

"Ten minutes," cried Shack. "We'll let you hold a watch over us and see. You said just now that Seever was neither a wrestler nor a football player. Well, this is, you admit, something of a football game, and we have a football aggregation for it. Root is in it too. He played 'left half,' Turner 'right,' and I 'full back' on the team all last fall. Root has been doing the mile for a couple of years, and is a fair performer. Turner is a mighty fast man for his weight, and can go the distance. As for myself, although my well-known modesty shrinks at the assertion, I am a 'crack-a-Jack' at any distance from one hundred yards to ten miles. I am indeed. With a seventy-yard handicap Seever has no show with me. I thought we three could do the trick nicely with a little of the interference we worked up together and found mighty useful on the 'gridiron.'"

"That's your plan, is it?" I asked. "Well, 'tis as crazy as its maker, which is saying a great deal."

At this there was silence again, Seever twirling his thumbs, and Shack running his fingers through his mop of hair in a hopeless fashion.

"I am not sure, however, but that with some modification I shall let you try it." At this Seever looked a shade less discouraged, and Shack gave a broad smile of triumph, and then listened with much seriousness as I said, "In the first place, there must be no interference with Hartman; do you promise this?"

"We do," answered Shack, who was quite willing to make any condition if Seever could be allowed to run.

"In the second place, you must make pace for Seever as decently as possible, and not one of you catch a judge's eye."

"We swear it," replied Shack, raising his big hand solemnly above his head.

"All right; if you will look out for these things I will let you try. It is time something was done, and even an extreme step like this may be the means of straightening matters out."

We talked the affair over for some time together, and when we parted our plans were well matured. I found that Root, Turner, and Shack had been training carefully for several weeks with this in view. They had all done the "mile" in fair time, although the last "quarter" was something of a task for big Turner. Shack, however, very much to my surprise, showed me a performance on the short gymnasium track that proved with seventy yards' start no one on earth could catch him, and the event was simply at his mercy. Seever begged him to go in for himself and pull the thing off, and I advised the same; but this did not tempt Shack at all.

"I had rather see Fred beat out the Dutchman than to win a dozen races," he declared, rubbing his hands.

So the affair was settled. I gave him a careful trial a few nights before the "games," and decided that Hartman with his first mate Kitson and his "fellow pirates," as Shack called them, were likely to find rough sailing on Saturday night.

There is an almost endless variety in outdoor games. The weather conditions alone are enough to make each day stand out by itself. Cloud and sunshine, heat and cold, wind and calm, not to speak of the occasional smart shower at about five o'clock when interest is at its height, make an almost limitless combination.

There is none of this diversity to indoor games. The track is neither fast nor heavy, and the boards are no softer on one evening than another. The temperature is always a bit too high for comfort, the air too close for laboring lungs, and the same bright light glares on all. There may of course be something in the games themselves to make them noteworthy, and those of February, 189-, I shall always remember through the charge of the "Heavy Brigade," so called by Shack, who claimed it quite outclassed the performance of the "Light Brigade," because the danger was greater and there were no dead nor wounded.

When I arrived at the "hall" at a little after seven o'clock, they were preparing to start the preliminary heats of the "forty-yard novice," a weeding-out process quite necessary, but not particularly exciting. The "clerk of the course" was calling off the names of the contestants, and nearly a hundred young fellows were gathered around him, answering one after the other, as he checked off the list. Some were hidden from shoulder to toe by voluminous wraps, some wore sweaters of various shapes and colors, and some were clad only in jersey, trunks, and running shoes. The officials, who wore their badges and an air of blasé indifference to distinguish them from common mortals, were much in evidence, and a good-sized squad of carpenters and helpers were busying themselves around the track.

The men on the floor far outnumbered the spectators, who as a rule were content to wait for the semi-finals at eight o'clock and enjoy an unhurried dinner meanwhile. There were a few boys in the gallery, here and there a little bunch of a half-dozen or so in the seats surrounding the track, and on the platform only two pretty girls occupied seats on the very back row, who were anxious to see somebody win his heat,—a brother perhaps.

In a far corner of the gallery the musicians were arriving. They would not begin to play for some time, however, and meanwhile the high walls echoed to every sound, and the long strips of bunting hanging from the ceiling waved slowly with the wind from the open windows.

I could see among the crowd of contestants who gathered around the white lines at the start several boys in whom I was interested; but I had nothing to say to them, and went over to the opposite corner, where the judges clustered around the finish posts. The red worsted was waiting for its first break, and beyond, hung against the walls, were the mattresses to catch the sprinter unable to check his speed. On one side were the hurdles in a long row ready to be pushed into place. In a third corner was the seven-foot circle with its raised cleat for the "shot put," and the last triangle was occupied by the standards and cross bar for the "high jump." The movable platforms for the raised corners were in two sections, and pulled apart so as not to interfere with the "dash."

I had only time for a word or two, a nod here and a handshake there, when, at a sign from the starter, the judges took their places, and the timekeepers stood with watch in hand ready to record the flying fifth seconds. I could look along the smooth floor and see the men take their places. There was Downer, a little Freshman, white with the excitement of his first public performance. He was a nervous chap, and one of my most promising men. Up goes the starter's hand, "Marks," "Set," the report of the pistol, and out of the circling crowd break the five struggling forms. There is the beat of eager feet, one, two, three, four, and between the posts they dash, little Downer coming away in the last few strides. "Thud" he goes against the mattress; "thud," "thud," "thud," "thud," go the other four, and the first heat is over. As they come back, the judges check off the "37" from Downer's back, his nervousness all gone, and in its place a confidence for which there is as little excuse.

There were a score of heats varying little from this, as many more in the "forty-yard handicap," and when they were finished nearly every seat in the building was taken, and the platform had blossomed out like a bank of flowers with the bright colors which the ladies wore. Now the band starts up with a swinging "March," and everything takes on a new life.

In the next two hours there was nothing particularly worth recording. Shack won the "shot put" in spite of the four feet about which he had complained so loudly, thus proving the astuteness of the much maligned "handicapper." Sawyer came to me with Root and Turner just before the "mile" was called, his long wrap dangling loose around his heels, and a broad grin on his face. He answered my inquiry as to whether everything was all right with an expressive nod, and then quoted a line or two from some pathetic ballad in which the horrors of a death on the battle-field were vividly depicted. He called off the roll very solemnly. Root and Turner answering to their names, he told them to look to their accoutrements, to tighten their horses' girths, and when the starter sent them to their places, he gave the order to "saddle" with great seriousness, leaving me with a step or two in imitation of a particularly clumsy charger.

He was fixed with Turner at the seventy-yard mark, among a crowd of a score of limit men. When they took their places, Shack was well outside in the first row, and Turner well inside on the second. Root was twenty yards back with another smaller knot of men at the fifty-yard mark, and there were half a dozen at the thirty-five.

Fritz Hartman was alone on the twenty-five-yard line, and Seever stood by himself at "scratch." Fritz was a well put together little chap, with curly yellow hair, round face, and a great favorite with the gallery and the "Rowing Club." There were a half dozen of the latter among the contestants, all of them showing the crossed oars on the breasts of their jerseys. Seever was almost as fair as the Dutchman, but he was a bit browner, his hair was darker without the curl, and he stood at least three inches taller. He kept his wrap on until the last moment, taking no chances with a draft of cool air which blew from an open window behind him. I knew there was nothing to be said to him, for he knew his business perfectly, but took my position near the limit men, who were having considerable fun with Shack and Turner.

One little fellow told Shack he would be quite a sprinter when he "got his growth." And Shack confessed he did not feel quite strong enough for the distance. When Turner pulled off his sweater, revealing his enormous shoulders and chest, he did appear a bit out of place among the lighter men around him. One of them said Turner was in good shape, but a "bit fine," and asked if he had not done a "trifle too much work." Another declared that Shack was so wide, he blocked the whole track. There seemed to be an impression that the two big fellows had gone in for a lark, or with the idea of settling who was the best at the distance, and with no idea of winning. Of the real plan of the "Heavy Brigade" there was no sign that any one had the least suspicion.

There was some cheering from the galleries for Hartman when he took his place, and when Seever threw off his wrap there came a little burst of applause from the spectators on the platform, and from the seats which circled the track.

Many remembered Seever's nasty fall of the previous year, and it was pretty well surmised that he meant to make a mighty hard try to win where he had failed before. Indeed, by that peculiar telegraphy which runs through a large crowd, almost every one knew that the "mile" was to be the event of the evening. Seever was a fine sight in his spotless running suit, his arms a bit slender, not an ounce of useless weight above the belt, and his legs long and lithe as a greyhound's. He might not be a "hothouse plant," but he was certainly not qualified to join the ranks of the "Heavy Brigade."

The band stops in the middle of a bar at a signal from the "announcer," while he calls out the winners of the "high jump" in stentorian tones. Then comes almost perfect silence as the thirty-odd men bend over their marks, and are off with the sound of the pistol. They make a noise like a heavy freight-train, and when the limit men strike the first corner it was a case of the "ready shoulder" and "useful elbow," sure enough. Three or four went down, sliding along the smooth boards. A couple were up almost without loss, but one of them has enough and goes limping off the track. Big Turner, despite his football experience, almost comes to grief, for he had a man right under his feet; he staggers through, however, with a plunge that sends another man to the edge of the track, and is by Shack's side a moment later. Of course anything with a pair of legs can run a single lap at the speed with which the best of them start out who mean to finish in good time. The first lap showed few changes, except that the whole lot had strung out in a long procession, first one and then another coming up or going back, but with no very radical changes. There were a couple of fellows with no idea of pace who started from limit as if they had a hundred yards only before them, and who came up close to Seever, who was in no hurry yet.

In the second lap Hartman began to draw away, and at the end of the third passed a man or two and came up to a little bunch of nine or ten close together. Root was among them, and made a little spurt as Fritz went by; but the rest opened a gap like a barn door, through which the Dutchman slipped with ease, and set out for those ahead.

"That was very pretty," said I to myself; "now we will see if Seever gets the same chance." Fred, who had now struck his gait, and got his heart and lungs in good working order, quickening his stride, passed a few stragglers almost before they saw him, and came up to the same bunch through which Hartman had gone so easily. He trailed after them a little, and then swung wide to go by on the outside; but a stout fellow with the crossed oars on his breast went with him, his right arm well out, and his elbows up, taking Seever almost to the rail. The latter was forced back again, and in the straight tried to slip through a promising gap, but they put the bars up as he came along, and he found himself, despite his best efforts, nicely pocketed at this early stage of the game. There was considerable indication of disapproval from the audience, and some hisses; but there was Seever, sure enough, "in Coventry" and no mistake.

All this time Shack and Turner were running easily, and they now began to slip back faster still among the tail-enders, being joined by Root on the way. When Seever found himself blocked, he slowed a little, according to instructions, and a second or two later the three men came back, and led him with Shack first, Root second, and Turner just ahead. Then, as if a trumpet had been blown, the "Heavy Brigade" swung into position something like the letter "V," with Shack at the apex, Root a little back and outside, and Turner in the same relative position on the inside. There was nothing at all conspicuous about all this, and I doubt if any one noticed it but myself. Seever now came up a little, and took his place behind the "troop." They ran in this way for a few strides, and then, as if the order to charge had been given, the "Heavy Brigade" started at speed.

I held my breath a bit as they came up to the bunch which had blocked Seever a moment before. Shack tried to swing wide, but again the stout fellow with the crossed oars came out, and with him a couple of others. Then Shack came in a little, chose a place where there was a small gap, the trio "hit her up," and went through the crowd like a particularly powerful snow-plough. The stout fellow tried to swing in, but he could make no more impression against Shack than a stone-wall, and when he bumped back against Root the latter worthy sent him to the rear. Turner took care of his corner without a stagger. It was a mighty neat performance, for no one was taken off his feet, though several had been thrown out of their strides when the "Brigade" cut through. The audience cheered as Seever swung by, and set out behind his body-guard at a pace that meant mischief to some one. They had all been running easily, and now they passed one contestant after another until they came to a second bunch a bit more solid than the first.

Shack trailed them for a half lap; looking in vain for an opening, he swung wide, he made a try for the inside, he stepped this way and that, and then suddenly, as if at the touch of the spur, the "Heavies" cut into the line in front where it was weakest. There was no opening; so Shack selected a little fellow in the middle, and ran right over him, taking pains to send him wide out of Seever's way. Root had little trouble, but Turner found himself in an awful hole. I could see his huge shoulder as he forced through, and at one time I thought he was surely down, but he came through a little behind the rest, puffing like a grampus. He was strong and game, however, and a moment later was in his place again, although far from comfortable.

The audience was now on its feet, for there were but a couple of laps left, and the real race was now to come. Half of the starters had dropped out, half of the remainder were hopelessly trailed, and the leaders were close together. Hartman had perhaps ten yards over Kitson, and about the same distance back were the "Heavies," with Seever close up. This latter "piece of rare porcelain," as Shack called him, had been taken through without a touch and was running as if on eggs. They pulled Kitson back fast, and caught him at the last corner. He was a tall fellow with a closely shaven head, who was a runner, sure enough, and used his arms almost as much as his legs. It was almost impossible for a light man to get by him on a narrow board track.

Just what he tried to do I never discovered, for the crowd of contestants inside the track were all huddled together and partly hid my view. All I am sure of is that the man with the "useful elbow" suddenly performed a parabola of surpassing splendor, and landed in a very dazed condition between the knees of a fat man in the front row of spectators.

Kitson had no sooner been put out of danger than Root and Shack swung wide, and Turner also stepped out of the way, falling among the crowd inside the track pretty well run out, and Seever came through and set out for Hartman like the "Headless Horseman."

The Dutchman ran as if the famous spectre of Sleepy Hollow was indeed after him, but Seever was as fresh as paint and would not be denied. Foot by foot he gained, and passing him at the last corner broke the tape a comfortable winner by a couple of yards.

Of course he received plenty of acknowledgment for his plucky race, but not half the applause that came to Shack, the doughty leader of the "Heavy Brigade," who came romping in third, with a grin on his face like the first quarter of a harvest moon.

I remember it was on a Monday morning that I sat in my office at the gymnasium, opening a three-days' mail. I had been out of town, and found quite a formidable accumulation of letters on my desk.

It was early, not later than eight o'clock. The November sun was shining, and the woodbine that framed the eastern window was blazing almost as brightly as the fire in the grate. It was all very cheerful. I was glad to get back again, and with an old cricket jacket around my shoulders I set myself to clean up the arrears of work.

I always handle my mail on the principle of elimination; that is, I first open the unsealed envelopes containing circulars, then those of apparently little consequence, and so on down to the most interesting and important. Of course I sometimes make mistakes, but not very often. I distinctly remember that on that day an envelope with a black border was saved for the very last. The postmark was illegible, and it was addressed to me in a particularly old-fashioned and graceful hand.

When at last I broke the seal, I found its contents as follows:

The Oaks, Fairfax Co., Va.

Dear Sir: I am desirous that my son may win distinction in some form of athletic sport. I understand that you have charge of the instruction in this department. It is my wish that he be given especial training in that exercise to which he is best adapted. I have already advised him concerning my plan. I write you also, because he has unfortunately little ambition in this direction, and I must ask that he be given particular care and attention. I shall be pleased to have you send me the customary bill for such extra work. My son comes of a family renowned for strength and vigor, and should be able to surpass all competitors. I should consider a second place no better than absolute failure. Asking your serious consideration of the above, I am,

Sincerely yours, Margaret Lee Fairfax. To Mr. Walter Brown.

Now, I have received a great many letters concerning athletic matters in my time, but few more interesting than this. Concealed under a very matter-of-fact speech and manner, there is in me a vein of the imaginative which I occasionally indulge. Sometimes a very small matter will be enough to send me on a very wild flight. I remember that I read the letter with the black border again and again, trying to picture to myself the one who wrote it. There were nine sentences, and six of them beginning with the "I,"—evidently a woman of strong personality. "I am desirous," "It is my wish," certainly indicated one accustomed to have her inclinations respected. "He comes of a family renowned for strength and vigor, and should be able to surpass all competitors," plainly showed a woman proud of her birth, and ambitious for success. A Virginian, a Fairfax. I made a mind picture of her as she wrote the letter, sitting in a cool and shaded room in one of those white-pillared, wide-halled mansions, built a century ago among the oaks. She was dressed in black, her figure tall and slender, her back straight and her head well poised. Her hair had a few threads of white in it, but a hint of color still showed in her cheeks, and the light had not yet gone out of her dark eyes. Her mouth I pictured a trifle thin-lipped and positive. At an old mahogany desk with big brass escutcheons she sat, the magnolias' heavy fragrance in the air, the song of the darkies sounding faintly from the distant fields. This is the picture I made on that November morning, and how long I should have dreamed I cannot say, had not Paddy's voice from under my window waked me from my trance, with "Jerry, ye Kildare divil, luk at the rake ye lift out the night; it's half a mind I hev to comb yer thick hid wid it."

Jerry protested his innocence in tones only less strident than Paddy's own, and the remarkably fluent and aggressive tirade of the latter was only lost to me when they had walked down the track and out of ear-shot.

Now, I defy any one to make mind pictures under such conditions, and I became my practical self at once. I shut off the romantic stop with a thud, and turning on the business pipe, proceeded to answer my mail. Most of the circulars went into the waste basket; receipted bills into one compartment, unpaid into another. I answered a few of the routine letters, and then oddly enough I broke my rule, and took up the black-bordered letter again.

Who was this candidate for athletic fame? His name was not even mentioned in the letter. Evidently the son of Margaret Lee Fairfax was supposed to be too well known to need any further title. A reference to my list gave me among the freshmen, "Richard Spotswood Fairfax, The Oaks, Fairfax Co., Va.," but this did not help me at all. He had certainly not appeared on track or field, or I should have remembered him, and he had even neglected a physical examination. He was probably bandy-legged, big-waisted, round-shouldered, and hollow-chested. He might be a sufferer from dyspepsia and heart disease; there were chances that he had a fancy for Greek roots, and thought football brutal. I have been asked by doting parents to make champion sprinters and weight putters out of just such timber,—although the age of miracles is past.

I had a conventional way of answering such letters, and prepared to go through the usual forms. A modest request it was indeed! "I should consider a second place no better than absolute failure." Little did she realize what a combination of excellences go to make up a winner, nor how many good men train faithfully for four years without getting a place.

Give him "especial care and attention"? Well, hardly, if he does not care enough about himself even to have his chart made out.

I had taken the sheet of paper and written the "Dear Madam," when there came a knock at the door, and at my "Come in," it swung leisurely open. Just how I came to the conclusion I cannot tell, but I knew the first moment I set eyes on my visitor that it was Richard Spotswood Fairfax himself. He was not at all the monstrosity I had painted him; in fact, he was a mighty good-looking fellow. He was a little above average height, with a dark oval face, brown hair, and a wide smile that "wud timpt a man to borry a dollar," as Paddy once said. His tailor knew his business, though his suit of brown tweed fitted a trifle more loosely than our Northern style would have permitted. He also wore a low roll-collar, that showed a firm, round neck to advantage. He smiled when he entered, and sank into a chair by the side of my desk with a sigh of content and another smile. He was in no hurry to speak, and as I learned after was never in a hurry to do anything. He looked me over a moment with his handsome sleepy blue eyes, and then spoke in that melodious drawl which is taught nowhere else but in "ole Virginny." I do not remember how he introduced the subject, for I was too much taken with his voice to notice. I cannot begin to describe it, or the easy way in which the words followed each other, divorced from all such aggressive letters as r, g, and t.

He told me he wished to be examined, and assigned some branch of sport to which he could give his attention; in effect, just what his mother had written, except that he omitted to say anything about winning or a first place. I asked him if he had ever done anything in athletics, and he said that barring a little gunning, a moderate amount of riding, and considerable fishing, he had done nothing at all in sports. He expressed a decided preference for the fishing, which I thought was characteristic.

To my question as to whether he had any choice whatever concerning work on track or cinder-path, he answered, none at all, except that which called for the least exertion would best suit his book. I decided that his mother had written truly when she said he "lacked ambition in this direction," and might have said that he lacked ambition in any other. It was surprising that I did not take a dislike to one who professed such a decided aversion to manly sports, but the boy was so open and frank about it that the impression was not at all disagreeable.

After Fairfax had told his story and answered a few questions, I ordered him in a short, Yankee fashion (that seemed almost brutal compared with his easy tones) to strip and I would take his measurements. At my direction he rose slowly, went over to the corner, leisurely took off coat and vest, and when he got down to the buff, and I looked up from my writing, as I live, I had answered three letters, and the clock had ticked off a full five minutes. (Two is usually enough to transform a shackled slave of Fashion to the freedom of a state of nature.) I laid my pen aside, and taking tape in hand began to look him over. I confess I could hardly restrain an exclamation of surprise. His languid ways and slow movements had not prepared me for any such development as he showed. The conventional costume of the nineteenth century is a wonderful disguise, designed by some man-milliner to hide the imperfections of a degenerate race. The trained athlete and the flabby dude look much alike in loose trousers and padded coats.

Now, Dick was neither athlete nor dude, though if I ever saw a man cut out for the former, he was the one. His skin was dark, but clear and velvety. He stood easily, with every muscle relaxed, and was as symmetrical as a demi-god. There was nothing out of proportion, no fat, no unused muscle, and no over-development. Indeed, I surmised, what afterward proved true, that he was the best specimen of an embryo athlete that it had ever been my good fortune to see.

I took him to the standard and found his height five feet ten and one-half inches. He lifted the scales at one hundred and fifty-eight, and then I put my tape on him and began my measurements. As I marked down one after another my admiration grew, and when I had finished and he had dressed and left me, I could not deny myself the pleasure of making out his chart, even before I finished the mail. A wonderful chart it was, too. The average percentage was not as high as that of one or two fellows who had the advantages of intelligent handling by good men at first-class preparatory schools, but when it came to symmetrical development, there was not one in the same class with him. The line was almost straight, a slight advantage only showing in measurements below the waist.

After the chart was finished I put it in a conspicuous place on the mantel, went back to my letters, and finally wrote Mrs. Fairfax as follows: "I shall be pleased to give your son the attention you ask. Although it is impossible to guarantee any degree of success, he has the advantage of an unusually good development, and may make something of himself if he is willing to work faithfully and follow orders. It rests more with him than myself. There will be no extra charge."

It may seem rather a curt letter, but compared with what I usually write in answer to like requests it was remarkably "Chesterfieldian." Not that I am ever likely to so far forget myself as to neglect the common courtesies, but it is often necessary to be very positive in order to protect against further annoyance. I received an acknowledgment from "The Oaks" a few days after, which was not quite as dictatorial as the first, and in which the "I" was not nearly so much in evidence. It also asked me to report occasionally, and hinted that maternal authority might be invoked in case of difficulty, and that Richard Spotswood Fairfax had been taught to respect it thoroughly.

Dick appeared on the cinder-path the second day after his call on me, clad in irreproachable track costume, and I gave him a little trial with some of the other freshmen who had been out several weeks. He had never worn a running-shoe before that day, nor entered a contest, and yet he ran the "hundred" in eleven and three-fifths, and the "quarter" a little under the minute, coming in as fresh as paint, and without turning a hair. It was odd to see him standing with a half-dozen other fellows, who were drenched with perspiration, and wheezing like blacksmiths' bellows, while he was not even tired.

The next day he cleared four feet eleven in the "running high," and nearly seventeen in the "running broad." Now, these were wonderful performances for a novice, particularly as Dick seemed not to exert himself in the least.

That night, as I sat in my room smoking a comforting pipe, I thought the matter over very thoroughly. I am a shy bird for "wonders," and doubtful concerning "phenoms," but I made up my mind in cold blood that almost anything was possible for Richard Spotswood Fairfax, of "The Oaks." With the advantages of my handling, he ought to be a world beater, and no mistake. As Tom Furness expresses a good thing, "There was frosting on top, and jelly between the layers."

Of course I said nothing of this to Dick, but ordered him regular all-round work in the gymnasium for the winter, and told him if he took good care of himself, we might make something of him in the spring. In those days we had no big indoor meets, and the men were allowed to do very much as they pleased until near the end of the winter. I am of the opinion that such rest is better in the end than a continuous course of training, particularly for men under twenty-one.

I saw considerable of Dick, and was well satisfied to have him keep to easy exercise. He filled out a bit, and the muscles on his shapely body grew large and firm as the days went by. I was a bit troubled by the boy's extreme popularity, for it brought continual temptation to shirk work. Some one or another was perpetually asking him away, when if he had possessed fewer friends, he would have been less troubled. He was a mighty fine-looking fellow, and with an unlimited fund of good nature and good cash (two most essential passports to college popularity), spring found him the best known and best liked man of his class, a favorite with man, woman, and beast. He had stuck to his work most faithfully, and barring a little fling or so, such as all boys of his age are likely to take, I had little fault to find with him. I remember I expressed one day my surprise that he had not missed his hour in the gymnasium more than once or twice since he started in, and was told, as if the answer was conclusive, that he had given his promise. He also added later that a Fairfax never broke his word, even in the least degree.

One common difficulty I escaped with Dick, that of keeping him from the football field, the grave for the hopes of so many a promising athlete. Dick pronounced the game altogether too much like work to suit him, and no entreaty would move him in the least; not even the plea that he was "needed," or the threat that he would be considered disloyal to his class, had any effect whatever on him.

Now, it must not be thought for a moment that I object to football in its proper place. It is the king of sports, and stands by itself, unrivalled in its attractions for all of Anglo-Saxon blood. It is the best successor to the knightly tourney that this prosaic century has left us. Neither an occasional accident, nor the foolishness of some of its supporters, with excuses for defeat, nor demands for apologies, will ever succeed in killing it.

The game is made, however, only for strong, stocky men. To see one with a turn of speed, long, shapely legs, and slender body mixed up in a scrimmage, and sure to end in the hospital at last, is more than I can stand. It should not take those unfitted for its fierce struggles, but qualified by nature for other forms of sport.

After considerable thought I decided to have Dick try for the running broad jump, and for these reasons: First, the team was weak in this department. Second, this was a trifle his best performance. Third, Dick chose it, as calling for the least labor. Indeed, he absolutely declined distant running, unless he was bound to it by his promise to his mother.

So Dick settled down to regular work and practice at the "running broad," and appeared each day as surely as the clock struck the hour; not even Frost, a veteran of four years, was as much to be depended on.

Now, there is no more practical school than that of the cinder-path; with given athletic material, a certain amount of work should bring exact results. We look for them just as confidently as the farmer looks for his crops in the autumn, after the planting of the spring and the cultivation of the summer. There may be accidents, just as the farmer has a hail-storm, or like fruit under an untimely frost a man may go stale at the last moment. But, barring accidents, we expect a gradual growth and development in just proportion to the natural ability of the man.

Now, strange to say, Dick Fairfax contradicted all known laws; his style improved, and his physical condition as well, but his jump was the same old jump after several weeks of practice. He worked up to an average of nineteen-six, but there he stuck, and no handling, instruction, or care could pull him on to the even twenty feet. Encouragement, blame, the incentives of trial contests, and even ridicule were all the same to Dick. I did all I knew,—and a bit well-informed I claimed to be,—giving him more attention than any three other men. This was partly because I liked the boy, and partly because I received a letter from "The Oaks" once every week asking how Richard was getting on. I have a decided aversion to lying, and I disliked to tell the truth to the lonely woman who looked forward so confidently to her son's success. But most of all I stuck to Dick because of the possibilities I saw in him. His legs were marvels; from toe to thigh, muscle, sinew, and bone were perfect. And yet Seever, with his crooked joints and spindle shanks, could best Dick's best effort by a good foot. I racked my brain for reasons of the failure, but with no result. I tried all possible changes, even to a take-off with the left, but all in vain. Nineteen-six he could do before or after breakfast, and probably at midnight, if tried at that unusual hour. He was the most consistent performer I have ever seen. The trouble was that it was consistency to a distance of no use at all to us. Little Jack Bennett, who had started in with something like a thirteen-foot jump, had plugged away day after day, until he was "hoss and hoss" with Dick, and the latter was quite content. Approval or disapproval were all the same to him, and he answered both with a smile, or a careless glance from his sleepy blue eyes.

Beside Dick and Jack there were Frost and Seever, two veterans who had reached their limit, and were good for a scant twenty-one. We had not one first-class man.

Now, while I am telling this tale more particularly for the initiated, I mean to make it plain to others less well informed, and will for their sakes say that the honor of the broad jump championship is to-day divided between Reber in America and Fry in the Old Country, both of whom have negotiated twenty-three feet six and one-half inches. No one jumping less than twenty-one feet has any chance in a first-class competition, and it would have done us as much good if Dick had done nine feet as nineteen; that is, no good at all.

Mrs. Fairfax reminded me in her first letter, after I had informed her that Dick had chosen the "running broad" as his special event, that this was a traditional Virginia sport, and she was pleased with the selection. She called my attention to the fact that Thackeray in his story of the "Virginians" makes Harry Warrington cover twenty-one feet three inches against his English rivals, and says that Col. George Washington could better this by a foot. Now, if this is history, and the truthful George did the distance with a short run on grass, and no take-off but a line on the turf, he was a wonder, and better than any we can show to-day. If Reber and Fry had lived in his time they would not have been in his class, and should George Washington return to earth, and enter a contest to-day (I hope there is nothing sacrilegious in the thought), he would distance their best efforts. A mighty fine pair of legs he must have had, and what he could have done with modern improvements, such as spiked shoes, a five-inch joist, on a nice cinder-path, and with prepared ground to land in, we can only guess; I should say he could have bettered his record by a good yard. It is easy to understand how such a man could succeed in the great game of war.

Our Virginian jumper, despite all his advantages, was content with a performance of nearly three feet less than that of the father of his country, who had hailed from the same State.

So matters went on, until one morning late in April I arranged with Dick to give him an early morning trial alone. He demurred at this most decidedly, being very fond of his morning nap, but consented finally, if I would agree to call him. I cannot tell how I allowed him to wheedle me as he did; but it was a way he had with all, and few could resist him.

It was a little after seven when I left my door and started for Dick's room. Now, I am no spring poet; in fact, thirty years' connection with the cinder-path has knocked most of the romance out of me, but I remember that morning still. It had been a late winter, and this was really the first dawn with no chill on the air; the trees were blossoming, the birds singing, the sun shining, the air like a tonic, and there was an indescribable something which told that winter was gone at last.

After some delay at Dick's door,—for he was a wonderful sleeper, particularly in the early morning,—I succeeded in waking him, and sat in the window-seat while he took his tub. I helped him a little in the rub-down, and a man more fit I never saw. This over, Dick pulled on his trunks, jersey, and sweater, and taking his shoes in his hands he followed me leisurely down-stairs. We waited a moment on the steps, while he pulled his shoes on, and then jogged over to the track. So fresh was the air, that just before we reached the ground I found myself quickening strides with Dick, until we finished at a very pretty sprint, something I had not done for a long time. It does not help a trainer to compete under any conditions with his man.

Perhaps it was partly because I felt that I had unbent too much with him that I made my lecture, already planned, more severe than intended; at any rate, it was a mighty stiff talk the boy got. I knew it was useless to mince matters, and was resolved to cut through his armor of good nature and indifference, if there was a vulnerable point, and a straight thrust could reach him. A couple of weeks before, the captain of the team, disgusted with Dick's unsatisfactory work, had quite lost his temper with him and told him in so many words that he was not worth the salt of the training-table, and must make a brace or he would not make the team at all.

Almost any other man would have either got hot and given a sharp answer, or more likely still gone into his boots with disappointment. Dick, however, did neither. He gave one of his wide smiles, maddening enough to an earnest man, took the matter very calmly, and volunteered to get his feed at his own expense whenever we tired of furnishing it. He remarked that a table with a little more variety would suit his palate fully as well, and after the talk went on with his tiresome jump of nineteen-six just as if nothing at all had been said.

Now, while this was provoking enough, and under usual conditions would have resulted in a summary drop from the team, we did not take the boy at his word. We were in desperate need of a broad jumper, and hoped that he might get out of the rut, and pick up that extra foot or two before the games. We thought it possible, also, that in a big contest the boy might be stirred up a bit, very much to his benefit.

On this April morning I talked about as plainly as I knew, using good old Anglo-Saxon phrases, and not many French idioms. I would not care to see my exact words in print, and I am afraid some of the bright eyes that I hope to please with this book would open wide with surprise. A trainer is given a certain license, like the driver of a yoke of oxen and the captain of a football team. I knew one of the latter who was seriously blamed because his puritanical training forbade the use of any stronger language than "board of health" when a signal was lost or the ball was dropped. Out in the open air, and among strong men, it is very easy to form the habit of using strong words on occasions like this.

I told Dick, in effect, that I had given him time and attention that rightfully belonged to other men on the team, and had nothing to show for it; that he could do better, and must do better; that his lack of improvement was a reflection on me as well as himself; and finally, if he was not an arrant cur, without courage and without honor, he would have tired of a child's jump long ago. "Why, man," said I, "if you had sand enough for an ant-hill, with a pair of legs like yours, you would be making a jump of twenty-three feet this morning."

Now, Dick was a great pet of mine and had never heard a hot word from me; he was very much surprised, and when I called him an "arrant cur, without courage and without honor," he flushed to the roots of his hair. The question of his honor was what touched him most deeply, for his Virginia atmosphere had made him especially sensitive, if not over careful. I was pleased to see his face grow dark, and the smile fade from the corners of his mouth. He was first indignant, and then in a towering passion. He stepped toward me, with clinched hands, and opened his mouth a couple of times to speak, but not a word did he say. Then he turned suddenly on his heel, walked away from me down the cinder-path, pulled his sweater over his head, dropped it on the grass, faced toward me again, and set himself for his sprint.

I was standing with him close to the joist when I delivered my lecture, and I remained where I was, wondering what the boy was up to.

He came down the path for his jump, with his jaw set, his eyes aflame, his brows black, and with two bright red spots in his cheeks. One of Dick's faults was that he would not force himself to full speed, an absolute essential for a good broad jump. In fact, a man who will not or cannot sprint should not be allowed to waste his energies on this event. This morning was an exception to the rule with Dick, for he came toward me like a whirlwind, apparently paying no attention to either stride or distance. He fortunately reached the mark all right, caught the joist firm and strong, and launched into the air with his knees high.

I cannot describe my sensations as he shot by me, better than to say he seemed to fly. I knew before he landed that the old mark of nineteen-six was gone forever, but when he broke ground close to the end of the box, and fell forward, I could not gather my senses for a moment. Dick picked himself up like a flash, his brows still threatening, and coming up to me said hoarsely, "Measure that, you English blackguard!" and strode off to his room without even stopping to pick up his sweater.

I said nothing at all in answer, for I was not in the least offended at the uncomplimentary language. Not that I am accustomed to being addressed in other than a respectful manner, but in this case I had really brought the anger on myself intentionally, and I had been successful beyond my fondest hopes.

As Dick disappeared behind the fence, Tom Furness swung round the corner, out for an early spin round the track.

"What do you call that?" said he, looking at the marks.

"It is the biggest jump ever made by man," I answered solemnly.

"A jump from the hard ground, either sidewise or backward," said Tom; "nothing but wings could carry a man from the joist to those marks."

"Look them over," I said, "before you question them."

Well, to make a long story short, the marks told their own tale; the ground was unbroken except by his feet, for there had been a shower the night before. There were proofs enough to convince Tom that Dick's shoes with Dick in them had run down that cinder-path, and from the joist had jumped the distance. Tom saw readily that the heel prints were too deep for a short jump backward, and too even for one sidewise. There was the broken ground, showing that the impetus was from the joist and the jumper was at a high rate of speed, and had lifted high in the air.

When we had argued it all out satisfactorily, Tom suggested that we had better measure it before we talked any longer, for it might not show up to what I thought.

He took the end of the tape and held it to the joist, while I walked ahead, with the reel rattling as I pulled it out. By the well-worn figures up to twenty-one I went; twenty-two and twenty-three were slightly blurred, but the twenty-four was fresh and bright, and at twenty-four two and one-quarter I stopped, and looked back to see if the tape was all right. I lifted my hand again, examined the ground very carefully, pulled the tape tight, and made the mark twenty-four feet one and three-quarter inches, back of which there was not the hint of a break.

Then Tom and I changed ends and he found it just the same.

There was no mistake about it. Given a competition and witnesses on that April morning, and the record would not stand to-day at twenty-three six and one-half, but a good seven and one-quarter inches better, and the name of Richard Spotswood Fairfax would be fastened to it.

Now, I expected that Dick would be all right with me the next time we met. I thought he would be pleased that my words, however severe, had forced him to the big jump, and even anticipated an apology for his offensive words. In this, however, I was mistaken. I did not realize the extreme sensitiveness of a Virginian and a Fairfax to any reflection upon his honor. Dick met me courteously enough, but distantly, and indeed was never the same to me again.

I found, too, that my lecture had only a temporary effect, for he took up the old jump of nineteen-six the same as before, apparently as contented as ever.

Tom Furness was foolish enough to tell the story of Dick's big jump, and was jollied therefore by everybody, receiving credit for a most Munchausen imagination. Tom let them rough him all right, for nothing pleased him better, but came to me at last with Sam Hitchcock asking me to settle a bet, whether or no Dick Fairfax had broken the record of the running broad jump in practice.

Of course I could but tell the truth under such circumstances, although I knew I was putting my reputation for veracity to a severe test. I declared very seriously that Dick had certainly bested the twenty-four-foot mark under record conditions. Sam was incredulous, and went so far as to remind me that it was not at all a joking matter, for a good ten-dollar note must change hands on my decision. At this, I repeated my statement positively as before, and Sam paid over the money without any further remark.

It was altogether too good a story for him to keep, and it soon became an interesting subject of discussion. Those who knew me best (and Sam among them, despite his loss) believed the tale, but there were many "doubting Thomases." Some made it a subject for senseless jokes and witless questions, such as, "Was the tape elastic?" "Did he jump from the roof?" or "Did he do it very, very early in the morning?" Other "smart Alecs" declared the twenty-four feet was all right, but the extra one and three-quarters inches they could not go.

Now, I am not at all averse to a draw on the long bow when swapping lies with a sporting friend and both know the game we play, but when I speak seriously I wish to be taken in the same way. Beside, I had allowed money to pass on it, and that should have settled the matter.

It was partly due to my resentment at this banter that Dick finally made the team and little Jack Bennett did not. The latter certainly became better in practice, but I claimed that neither were of any use at their regular jumps, and that Dick's extraordinary performance, for which I vouched again, while not likely to be repeated, was possible, and made Dick the better man for the choice.

When the decision was finally made, about a week before the games, I wrote Mrs. Fairfax a long letter, telling her the whole truth, giving special emphasis to the early morning trial. I declared my only hope for Dick's success (and that a faint one) was that the heat of a contest with men of other colleges, and before a crowd, might wake him up and get him a place. I did not see how he could win except by a miracle. I declared that I had kept my promise to her most faithfully, and that my disappointment was, if possible, greater than her own.

I received an answer promptly, which read as follows:

The Oaks, Fairfax Co., Va.

Dear Sir: I understand the conditions perfectly, but am still confident that Richard will win. He must win. Give him the enclosed note just before his last trial. On no account allow him to see it before, nor permit any considerable interval between the reading and Richard's last jump.

Sincerely yours, Margaret Lee Fairfax. To Mr. Walter Brown.

Now, I confess that when I finished the reading I really questioned the sanity of the "châtelaine" of "The Oaks." What effect could a note have, no matter how worded, upon easy-going Dick Fairfax? What appeal could she make that would add the necessary feet to his jump? It made me think of boyish stories of the age of chivalry, when talismanic words were efficacious. I read this short note over as carefully and even more wonderingly than the first black-bordered letter written by the same hand. Then I put it away in my pocket, resolved to follow instructions implicitly, no matter how foolish they might seem. I should have nothing with which to reproach myself, and would give Mrs. Fairfax no occasion for fault-finding. So the matter was left, and Dick went on with the rest of the team, perfectly contented with himself and all around him.

The games that year were not particularly interesting, except the one event for which we were so poorly prepared, and in which even Tom Furness did not have the courage to claim a single point.

It was a clear day after a three-days' rain, and the track was heavy, which happened to suit us. We had a couple of "mud larks" who scooped the sprints, though a dry-track would not have given them a place.

Dick spent most of the day watching the contests, as disinterestedly as if he was a native of the Isle of Java. He was clothed in a big gray blanket wrap and an omnipresent smile. The wrap had crimson cords and tassels, was extremely becoming, and more than one pair of bright eyes looked at him approvingly from the grand stand. Our Virginia jumper was certainly the handsomest and most distinguished-looking of all the contestants, and the girls always wish such a man to win, and are surprised and disappointed when some raw-boned chap with carroty hair, freckled face, and not a regular feature beats out their favorite. It was a glorious day, the sun bright, the sky cloudless, the seats crowded, and the college cheers like volleys of infantry at short range. When the "running broad" was on, and the numbers were called, Dick did not answer to his, and we were forced to look him up, the clerk meanwhile fussing and fuming, and using language more forceable than polite. At last I found him looking dreamily across the track at a pretty girl in the grand stand, as if this was his only business. He followed me with a bored look, and several backward glances delayed his sufficiently leisurely footsteps.

There was another delay on account of the ground; for, as frequently happens, the soil in the box where the men landed was so soft that it broke back several inches. Seever was the first man, and I did not want him to throw away a single chance. A spade was sent for and the loose earth flattened down a bit, but it took considerable time. The clerk, measurer, and almost every one else were put out but Dick, who had thrown himself full length on the soft turf by the side of the path, and bore the delay with extreme fortitude.

Most of the other contestants had taken a trial jump or two to get their strides and make their marks, but Dick waited contentedly for his number to be called, and would have been just as well satisfied if he had been skipped altogether.

Seever was the first of a large field, and when his number was announced he threw off his wrap and walked down the path. He was one of the most awkward men I ever saw, but as honest as he was homely. All his opponents wished him well, and several of them, as they sprawled around on the grass, had a joke or a bit of chaff for him as he left them. I always like to see the first trial of the "running broad." There is the narrow cinder-path, the whitewashed joist, and the soft earth, smoothed by repeated rakings ready to receive the prints of the spiked shoes. After that it is tedious until the weeding-out process is completed, and the three best men fight it out for the places.

I could have told within three inches of what Seever would do before he made his jump, for he was extremely steady, and had been at it for four years, and reached his limit. He came down the track awkwardly, but at a good speed, caught the joist firmly with his big foot, rose in the air with a grunt, and landed with a thud. The measurer announced twenty feet one-quarter inch without hesitation, for Seever always jumped high, and kept his heels together. Two or three others tried, and then came Frost, our second man, a little fellow with curly black hair. He was a bit better or worse than Seever, but inclined to be careless, and to-day it cost him dear. He overstepped the joist so far that he wrenched his ankle badly and was forced to retire, limping off to the dressing-room on a couple of the boys' shoulders.

Dick was almost last, and when he was called, he rose slowly, with a yawn, threw the gray wrap over Seever's head, and walked down the path as if he cared not where it led. When he turned, he looked up to the grand stand and gave the little blonde in the blue dress a glance and smile, for which he was most liberally applauded. At first only a few pairs of little gloved hands clapped, but they were persistent; others, who supposed for some reason or other applause was the proper thing at this time, joined in, and Dick received quite an ovation, although he had done nothing and was expected to do nothing.

I can see him to-day as he looked then. His arm out for his sprint; his bare legs, brown and sinewy, but smooth and graceful as a girl's; his whole figure a model for an artist. He was much surprised at the applause, for he was not used to it, and did not expect it. The color rose in his dark cheeks as he started down the path, quickening speed with every step, until just as his college cheer sounded its first sharp note he caught the joist, and bounded into the air. It was a perfect jump, barring a little lack of determination, but with much more fire than usual. I watched as the measurer pulled out his tape, and was pleased enough when he gave the distance as twenty-one two. I had been thinking all the day of the mother down in the old home, whose heart was so bound up in the success of her boy. I would have given a month's salary to have been able to send her the telegram she hoped for.

One after another, tall and short, stout and slender, good and bad, had their three trials, and Dick was in the finals by an inch and a half. Poor old Seever was out of it, and Dick was the only string we had left. All of our people were perfectly satisfied at this, and Tom was smiling as a Cheshire cat. I had absolutely no hope that Dick would do better than third, for after his first attempt, although the applause had been louder than ever, he had taken no notice of it, and had apparently lost all interest in the sport. Being accustomed to his surroundings, he went through his performances in a perfunctory fashion, showing a fraction over twenty feet, and then a fraction under. Indeed, he had become his old listless, careless self again.

In the finals he did first nineteen-nine, and then, despite the desperate effort I made to stir him up with sharp words, he fell back to his old maddening distance of nineteen-six and one-half.

The other two competitors, a little fellow with light hair, and a big chap with not much hair of any color, had respectively twenty-two one and one-half, and twenty-one and three-quarters inch to their credit. All seemed over but the shouting when Dick walked slowly down the cinder-path for his last trial. No applause did he get either, except from the gloved hands, for men do not like to see an athlete without determination, no matter how well they may like him in society.

As he walked down the path, I followed along a little behind him on the turf. I waited until he put his hand out, in exact accordance with instructions, and then I handed him his mother's message. He looked at me a moment with surprise, then took the black-bordered note and broke the seal.

He read it hastily, and the color left his face as if a mortal fear had stricken him. Into his eyes there came first a far-away look, then one of the fiercest determination. He crumpled the note in his left hand, faced around for his sprint, and was off like a flash. I watched the lithe figure and followed it, but Dick had landed long before I reached the joist. He had caught the timber much as he had done on the April morning, and had thrown his knees high as before. I saw him cut the air, and my heart came into my mouth as I thought of a win and a broken record both. But it was not to be. I saw him land in the end of the box, far beyond any other jump; but, to my horror, he had reached too far with his feet, and though he made a desperate effort, he balanced a moment, and then threw himself on his back and side. He picked himself up without a word, and throwing his gray wrap over his shoulder pushed his way through the little crowd of contestants and officials, and strode off toward the dressing-rooms without even waiting for the measurer.

I had eyes now only for the tape. The footmarks were plain as possible, and on the right and several inches back were the prints of Dick's thigh and elbow in the brown earth. The measurer pulled the tape out carefully, and I saw his finger slide by the twenty-two mark, where they hesitated a moment. He examined the broken ground with eager eyes, and at last his thumb stopped at the three and one-quarter inch. The little fellow who had made the twenty-two one and one-half was close by my side, and I heard him sigh at the sight. He had another trial; but the first place had seemed his already, and now he must fight for it with only one more chance. I was quite sure that Dick's jump was good enough, and so it proved. Richard Spotswood Fairfax was a winner. I was delayed a little, and when I reached the dressing-room I learned that the boy had dressed hurriedly, and driven off in a carriage by himself, without a word for any one. When I reached the hotel, he had taken his departure, waiting neither for congratulations nor farewells.

The first telegram I sent that night was to Virginia, and the first letter I read, on my return, was one with a black border.

The Oaks, Fairfax Co., Va.

Dear Sir: I am in receipt of your telegram. I must thank you for the faithfulness with which you have fulfilled my request. It is not probable that Richard will continue in athletics. I enclose herewith a compensation which is certainly due you. I shall be greatly disappointed if denied the pleasure of its acceptance. Wishing you the success you deserve in your profession, I am,

Sincerely yours, Margaret Lee Fairfax. To Mr. Walter Brown.

So closed my correspondence with the "châtelaine" of "The Oaks," whom I never saw, but about whom I have often thought. What did she write in that black-sealed, black-bordered note? I have puzzled my brain over it many and many an hour. I think I have guessed the riddle; but true or false, it must be kept a secret still.

Dick himself is certainly not an enigma. He is only the most pronounced case of a description I have met before and since.

He had ability, but not the inclination nor the will. A temporary anger on that April morning had given him the necessary determination to force his muscles to their extreme exercise of power. His mother's note had furnished a motive which had brought him in a winner. Without incentives, his muscular powers were not exercised, and his performances were ordinary.

Sometimes, as I sit by the fireside, smoking my pipe over old memories, I think of Dick, and wonder what he would have done had he Teddy Atherton's head on his shoulders, or his heart inside his ribs.

Of all my athletic disappointments Dick furnished me with the most disheartening, and among all the surprises of field and track none has equalled the Virginia jumper.

We are winners. The lobby of the hotel is crowded. Athletes, college men, travellers, and a curious public are well shuffled together. It is the same old pack of cards that I have seen for years, though the faces change. That "know-it-all" by the post is a new man, yet he is telling just how and why we won, like the wiseacres who preceded him, and the others who will follow; for this line of succession never runs out. He is telling how he has foreseen the result for weeks, and can call witnesses to prove his faultless prediction of six months ago. Yes, he can, though we only pulled out by the skin of our teeth, after sitting on the anxious seat all the afternoon; and had not Jim Harding thrown the hammer ten feet farther than ever before, we never should have won at all. But this only makes the "know-it-all's" wisdom more remarkable, and my ignorance as well, for I had thought the team a losing one, though I had, of course, held my tongue.

Bah! Thirty years have not reconciled me to this gentry, with the addled brains and brazen throats.

Most of the college men are gathered in little groups, around which the crowds ebb and flow in a surging tide. That its strongest current is through the swinging door of the bar-room cannot be denied, nor that it shows signs of the source from which it sprang. There are at least three grains of talk to one of listen, which is the regular dose, though the athletes pull the proportion down. They are, as usual, quietest of all. They have developed other muscles than those of the tongue; and yet even they are a bit talkative to-night, and have an unmistakably festive air about them.

After months of preparation and weeks of strict training, when rigid rules prohibit, and all the pleasant things of life seem labelled "Keep off the grass," there is a maddening pleasure in being free again,—free to taste that favorite dish, palatable but indigestible; free to inhale the fragrance of a good cigar; free to watch the hands of the clock swing into the small hours; free, as Harry Gardner expresses it, "to do as you darn please once more."

For those who have lost there is the necessity of drowning sorrow, and it is certainly the duty of a good winner to give his victory a fitting celebration. There is not as much difference in the two ceremonies as might be imagined.

Our team has broken training, and some of them are breaking it badly. There are the long summer months before them, with the leisure hours at seashore or mountains, and no more work until the cool winds of autumn begin to blow. Even those of the most regular habits are kicking over the traces, and some of the wilder spirits, that make a trainer's hair gray before its time, to whom the six months' restraint has been a galling yoke, are giving themselves very loose rein. I am sorry to say that this particular team has not a large percentage of either deacons or clergymen, though Jim Harding afterward took holy orders, became an honor to the cloth, and will some day be a bishop. I occasionally attend his church; and when I see his huge form at the desk, and hear his voice, powerful and earnest, as it echoes to the farthest corner, I wonder if he has forgotten the night when we looked for "Paddy's cousin, the copper," when "every one was a winner."

As I enter the hotel lobby, after dinner, on this evening of the games of 188-, I discover Jim standing near the street entrance with Harry Gardner, and a little knot of college friends and admirers. They are smoking like bad chimneys, and between puffs are giving a green reporter some most surprising bits of information, much to their own enjoyment and the delectation of their friends. The little reporter is taking copious notes, which will create a sensation in the morning, if the sporting editor does not discover them before they get into print. Jim is big and blond, and Harry slender and dark; the former has made a first in the "hammer-throw;" the latter, after winning his trial heat in the "hundred" with ease, got away badly in the finals, and had to content himself with adding a single point to our score.

Now, Jim and Harry are particular friends of mine; I shall never handle them again, and I want a last word or two of farewell. They have developed under my care from awkward boys to the finished athletes they are to-night. I have seen the firm, round muscles becoming more and more perfect; the heart and lungs grow equal to more and more severe tests, and the increasing courage and self-reliance (without which there can be no success on the cinder-path) which will help them through many a struggle with the world they are about to enter. It is one of the sad parts of a trainer's life that he must lose such friends.

I force my way through the crowd, getting numberless nods and greetings of a warmer nature, for I am a well-known man in such a gathering. I strike the strong current flowing to and from the bar; but a little patience, and a liberal use of the elbow, brings me to the boys at last. I give them each a hand, and we exchange a word or two of congratulation. Harry is, I see, a bit sore at his misfortune, for he had been picked as a sure winner. I give him a word of praise for his gallant effort to make up a three-yard loss at the start. There are many sprinters who would not have tried at all, let alone have pulled off the much-needed point. I tell Harding, with assumed resentment, that he has been sogering all the time, abusing my confidence by playing the sleeper, and that he has always been good for the extra ten feet.