For the Honor of the School: A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport

by Ralph Henry Barbour

  CHAPTER XVII

  ON THE CINDER TRACK

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

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

  The winter term came to an end, and spring vacation depopulated theschool for the better part of a week. Don and Paddy both went home foran “over Sunday” visit, the former’s duties as captain of the trackteam precluding a more extended absence, and the latter’s dislike to beaway from Dave for any length of time causing him to cut his presencein the bosom of his family to the shortest possible length. Dave stayedat Hillton and Wayne kept him company. Both kept up their trainingabout as they would have done had no vacation been in progress. Waynehad now attained to a development of lung power that satisfied evenProfessor Beck, and his triweekly performances on the gymnasium runningtrack had given place to almost daily walks over the country roads oracross fields; often there was a little cross-country run participatedin by Wayne and others. No effort was made to cover the distancequickly, and the instructions were to avoid hard running; so the ladstrotted easily over a two-mile course in a bunch and had plenty of funat the hazards, and came puffing up to the gymnasium together withreddened cheeks and tingling bodies to undergo the delights of a showerbath and a subsequent rubbing down that sent them to supper with theappetites of young bears.

  But with the commencement of the spring term the walks were supersededby almost daily work on the track. The cross-country trips becameregular events for the first and latter part of the week, and werevaried in distance from time to time. Often Wayne was the only oneof the “milers” or “half milers” to take the run; sometimes he wasaccompanied by Whitehead, a promising junior class youth; and lessoften the entire group of candidates were out. But whether the otherswere sent across the fields or not, Wayne was never allowed to miss arun.

  “You see, Gordon,” Professor Beck explained one day, “we have a way ofclassing 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 biliousclass; constitution tough and capable of severe tasks and prolongedeffort; circulation sluggish; disposition naturally persevering andob--ahem!--inflexible; requires plenty of good food and lots ofexercise. You and Whitehead are the only distance men that I canrightly class as bilious; Whitehead is less so than you; there is alsosomething of the sanguine in his make-up. So, my boy, that is why Ikeep you tussling with cross-country work while the others are on thetrack. No two men or boys, dogs or horses, require the same trainingin every particular. Your friend Cunningham is rather of a sanguinedisposition; he’s a brilliant performer at whatever he takes hold of;he can go over the one-hundred-and-twenty-yard hurdles in the finestform; but if he tried to take an oar in a two-mile boat race he wouldin all probability slump in his work before the race was won. Thesanguine man is a man of dash and spirit, and is, as a rule, incapableof prolonged effort; he makes a good sprinter, but a poor long-distancerunner.”

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

  “No, he’s not; that is, he’s a good cross-country runner for thereason that he is an excellent jumper and hurdler, and makes up by hisspeed over obstacles what he loses on the flat; but he’s only a faircross-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.’ Twoyears ago he managed to finish second, how I scarcely know. This lastfall, of the four men who finished first, three were distinctly of abilious temperament, and one, Northrop, fairly lymphatic. Of course,to this, as to all other rules, there are exceptions; but it’s a rulethat holds generally true. To the sanguine temperament we look forspeed, to the bilious for endurance, to the lymphatic for nerve.”

  On the days when the cross-country run was not in order Wayne went withthe other fellows to the track and practiced starting, and afterwardran varying distances on the cinders. The latter work Wayne liked,for, although he had not as yet been allowed to go over three fourthsof a mile, and though Professor Beck had never yet told him what timehe 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 therewas a pleasurable intoxication in working past this runner or that,and, as sometimes happened, finishing well in the lead. ProfessorBeck’s sole comments at the end of a performance of this sort was abrief “Well done, Gordon,” or an almost equally laconic “Try to betterthat to-morrow.”

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

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

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

  But aside from this defection Wayne’s performance was promising and Donwas delighted. “You’ll make the team sure,” he declared. “And if you doyou’re almost certain of a first or second place. Neither St. Eustacenor Warrenton has a first-class miler. You and young Whitehead, andpossibly Banks, will make a good trio.”

  But if running on the cinder track pleased Wayne the daily practiceat starting equally displeased him. It was exasperating and tiresomework, but there was a good fifteen minutes of it every afternoon, andWayne had a lot to learn. In squads of four or five the runners andjumpers were placed at the mark and sent off at the report of a pistol.The sprinters and hurdlers were instructed in the crouching, and thelong-distance men and the jumpers in the standing start. Time and againWayne, with his left foot on the mark, his body thrown forward, andhis ears straining for the report of the pistol in Professor Beck’shand, would for a single instant relax his vigilance, when-
-_bang!_ andoff 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 Beckwould inquire politely:

  “Asleep, Gordon?”

  Perhaps on the next attempt, mindful of his previous error, Wayne wouldoffend in the opposite direction and start with a wild plunge downthe track only to realize that the pistol report which he had seemedto hear was only a thing of imagination born of strained nerves andmuscles. Then he would crawl shamefacedly back to meet the grins of theother 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 alwaysapplauded by the professor; perhaps in only two words, but worth to theboy whole sentences of praise or compliment. And, besides, his workwas not so hard as that of the sprinters, who were forced to crouchlike monkeys or cats--Wayne was never able to decide which they mostresembled--for long seconds at a time, only to have the signal comewhen they had shifted their weight for a second from legs to arms, andto either leave them dazed on their mark or to send them sprawling onthe cinders. That, at least, was spared him. He was not the only oneof 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 itwith such infinite variety.”

  But Don was often sorely tried and perplexed in those days of earlytraining, and the unnecessary candor of the remark may be forgiven him.Don had his own training to go through with, and was besides compelledto take an active part in the training of others. The hurdlers andjumpers in especial were under his instruction, while, nominally atleast, he was responsible for the proper work of all the candidates.Dave alone appeared undisturbed by events. At least four times a weekhe practiced with the hammer, Professor Beck viewing his performanceswith scarce concealed displeasure. For Dave’s hammer throwing did notimprove as the season wore on. Of the two other aspirants for successat the sport, one, Hardy, had already equaled Dave’s best throw thatspring; and the other, Kendall, gave promise of speedily attaining alike degree of proficiency. But Dave did not believe in worrying; heonly tried his best, put every scrap of strength into his efforts,tossed the twelve-pound ball and wire away over the grass as thoughit were the veriest plaything, and then exhibited neither surprisenor disappointment when measurement revealed the fact that onceagain he had failed to equal his own not overgood record made in theinterscholastic meet the year before. Instead of fretting Dave workedthe harder, and if honest endeavor deserves reward Dave should havecaptured the championship.

  Week after week of good, bright weather, sometimes brisk withnorth winds, but never disagreeable, came and went. Wayne ranone-hundred-yard dashes, trotted slow miles, sped over moderate threequarters--always with a jolly sprint for the last forty or fiftyyards--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 tohis studies with a cool, clear brain and a splendid absence of nerves.And one day the entries for the spring handicap meeting were posted andall the candidates for athletic honors went at their training harderthan ever.