CHAPTER XV.
THE MATCH AT QUEEN'S CLUB.
"Sorry," said Butler, "I couldn't land you where I promised, but thismotor has played hob with me. She's been acting badly for a week."
A score of people came running up. "Hurt, hurt?" they cried.
"Hurt? no!" said Frank, "only disappointed. We were heading forHendon. How far is it to Queen's Club grounds?"
"'Bout five miles," volunteered someone.
"Is there a taxicab place about here anywhere?" inquired Frank. "I'vegot to get to Queen's Club on the double quick." He looked at hiswatch. It showed three minutes of two. The games were about to begin!
"Butler, excuse me if I leave you," cried Frank.
"Go to it, boy," said Butler, "and the Lord bless you."
Heading in the direction of a taxicab stand, Frank started off ona sharp trot, but was doomed to disappointment as not a taxi wasavailable at that moment, and the man in the little office wasn'thopeful that any would be back right away. "They may come any minute,and there may not be a blooming one for half an hour. If you'll takethe 'bus on the next street, it will take you within half a mile ofQueen's Club grounds."
Scarcely waiting to hear the last words, Frank darted for the streetmentioned, and, after a wait of five minutes, boarded an electric'bus bound for West Kensington. Fortunately, he found a seat-mate whowas well acquainted with what was going on at Queen's Club that day.
"Going to see the games, I suppose," he said. From him Frank learnedthat a short cut could be made which would be of considerable helpas a time-reducer. Fixing the direction in his mind, he sprang fromthe 'bus at the street indicated, and started on a run in the generaldirection of the Club.
As he ran, the last instructions of Trainer Black came to his mind:"Take it easy till the games, and keep off your feet." He could notsuppress a grim smile as he pounded along, running flat-footed tokeep as much spring as possible in his toes if he ever reached thetrack and if he was in time when he did reach there. Always he keptan eye out for a taxi, but fate was against him and he saw noneexcepting those with fares seated therein, and whirling along ontheir own business.
Losing his way, finding it again with the help of passers-by, andnearly but not quite despairing of there ever having been such aplace in London as the Queen's Club, he was halted by a collegeyell, sharp and incisive, delivered comparatively near. Getting hisbearings from the direction in which the yell came, he dashed througha short street and stood before the main gate of the Club.
"Is it over?" he panted to the officer at the gate. "The meet--is itover?"
"Who are you?" asked the officer, staring at the newcomer, whoseeyes, fierce in their intensity, looked out from a face streaked withsweat and dirt.
"I'm one of the competitors," gasped Frank.
"Ho, ho!" laughed the officer, "you look it. Did you run all the wayfrom New York?"
"I _am one of the competitors_," said Frank, emphasizing every word,"and through an accident got left at Brighton. Please let me go tothe training quarters of the American team."
"Well, 'ere's a rum cove. Comes up 'ere and wants to get passed intothe gymes for nothink."
For a few minutes it looked as if, after all his trouble to get tothe Club grounds, he was to be held up outside while his chance waslost. Finally, however, he induced the officer to send a messenger tothe American quarters, and in half a minute he was snatched throughthe gate by an assistant trainer and stood in the presence of CaptainHarrington, who was just going out for his quarter.
The captain looked him over with cold, hard eyes. "You're a littlelate," he said. "We don't bring men across the Atlantic to have themlate for the beginning of a track meet. You are no value to us. Wewill not need you."
Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Harrington interrupted sharplywith "I don't want to hear excuses," and passed on to the start ofhis event. Frank did not have the heart even to look at the racewhich was slated to go to the Americans through the superior abilityof the Yale captain. Trainer Black looked up when he entered thebuilding, but said nothing. Frank felt as if he had been thrown intoouter darkness. He ground his teeth in impotent rage and dropped intoa chair, listening in a half-hearted way to the little volley ofspontaneous cheering which drifted through the window.
"What's that?" cried Trainer Black, and dashed out the door. "Soundslike an English cheer!"
An English cheer it was, and it announced the victory of a Cambridge"dark horse" who had run the Yale quarter-mile champion off his feetin the stretch. A minute later Harrington staggered into the room,and threw himself face downward on a table.
"This loses us the meet," said a rubber in a whisper. "To think thatHarrington should lose out, of all people. He loafed too much in thefirst part of the race and couldn't hold the sprint at the end. Itwas a foxy trick the Englishman worked, but a fair win enough."
"Where's Armstrong, where's Armstrong?" came the excited call byTrainer Black.
Frank stood up. "Here," he said simply.
"Get into your clothes," Black shouted. "Why are you sitting therelike a dummy? Here, some of you fellows help him. Patsy, rub his legmuscles a bit--Jack, help Patsy. Move lively!"
Frank tore off his clothes, and in half a minute his leg muscleswere being slapped and kneaded by the two rubbers as if their lifedepended on doing a quick and thorough job.
"It's like this," said Black, coming over to the rubbing table."Everything went about as scheduled until Harrington fell down in hisquarter. That leaves us short an event we counted on."
"Did we get the shot?"
"No, confound it, that Rhodes scholar from Dakota beat our man out onthe last try."
"So the Englishmen have now two more than we calculated?"
"Exactly, and there isn't a ghost of a chance of their losing thetwo-mile run unless their men choke."
"And the broad-jump?" inquired Frank, weakly.
"You've got to win that!" Black said it as if it was by no means anunusual request.
"Win it?" gasped Frank. "What has Vare done?"
"Took only three jumps the last of which was twenty-three feet,and hasn't jumped again. McGregor's been dragging his tries along,hoping that you would turn up, but he hasn't been able to do betterthan twenty-two six. Armstrong, if you can turn the trick on Vare itwill give us the meet. You've got to do it!" he added vehemently.
Frank rolled from the rubbing table, slipped into his scanty tracksuit, and, with the Yale manager, trotted quickly to the field. "Isuppose you are in good shape," suggested the manager hopefully."Were you resting and keeping off your feet?"
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Frank could hardlyrestrain a grin. "Keeping off my feet!" he thought. "If they knewwhat I've been through to get here! Guess I'm all right," he saidaloud.
McGregor greeted Frank enthusiastically. "Where in the name of BillyPatterson have you been?" and then, without waiting for an answer:"This Vare is a grasshopper. He has this event cinched, you and I areonly ornaments, not real jumpers at all, and the Johnny Bulls havedecided they've licked the Yankees for once in their lives--look!they're beginning to go!" Then to Frank: "For pity's sake, let out alink and make a good showing. I'm tied to the ground with a bag oflead in each heel."
Frank did not need any urging. The complacent attitude of theEnglishmen, who were beginning to file out in groups of three orfour, their faces showing the satisfaction of sure victory, added tohis determination. He had made a desperate struggle to be where hewas now, and he was not going to let it end there.
Measuring off the runway with more than ordinary care, Vare set hismarks, and, after two or three practice runs, loped down the runwayand made his first leap.
"Twenty-two feet, four inches," sang out the measurer.
Vare had walked to the jumping pit. A flicker of a smile crossed hisface, he nodded cheerfully to his Cambridge jumping mate, and pickingup his jersey swung it across his shoulder, and, without another lookat the Americans, turned his face to the track house.
"His Lordship Vare de Vare has published to the world that it's allover, Frank," said McGregor. "I'd give a good right leg if I couldbeat him, he's so mighty superior. But I've only got one more jump,and it's not in me. If you don't want to see my poor busted heartcluttering up this field, go after him."
"It's now or never," said Frank to himself as he walked slowly downthe runway. "What was it Princewell said--think high when you hit thetake-off--think high---- I'll think a mile high if it will help!"
In spite of the difficulties he had undergone in getting to the Club,he was keyed to such a state of nervous excitement that he felt asif he were walking on air. The hard incidents of the morning wereforgotten, the thrilling ride in the air machine, the abrupt landing,the killing run through torrid streets, the frigid reception ofhis captain. Now, with his opportunity at hand he became cool andcalculating. He had a splendid reserve of strength to call upon, andhe would call it to the last ounce.
Down the runway came Armstrong like a flash, first slowly, then witha great burst of speed. His eye was fixed on the take-off block,but his mind was on that four-foot hurdle supposed to be six feetout there in the pit. He struck the block perfectly and, with handsthrown high in the air and feet drawn up to clear the imaginaryhurdle, he sailed up and forward, struck at last in the pit and heldhis full distance.
With a shout McGregor, recognizing a good jump, sprang from thebench and ran forward to the jumping pit from which Frank was juststepping, brushing away the loam that clung to his ankles.
"Twenty-three feet, even," the announcer bawled.
Coming so unexpectedly, the announcement for a moment fell on deafears. Then, as the full significance became apparent, the Americansin the stand set up a piercing and spontaneous yell which startledand turned back the crowd already moving in larger and larger numbersin the direction of the gate.
"Y-e-a-a-a--Armstrong!" yelled McGregor in a frenzy of delight, andfell upon that individual like a long lost brother, beat him upon theback and capered about like a man bereft of his senses. "It meansthat old Claude Vare de Vare, Lord of Creation and Elsewhere, has gotto come back and do it over again! We have a chance! Oh, Armstrong,it means we have a chance!"
Interest in the stand immediately became intense. People who wereleaving returned to their seats.
"A ripping jump!" commented an Englishman as he reseated himself,"but Vare will take his measure." Vare had been sent for, and waseven now walking calmly across the track with an attitude which saidplainly: "What's all this fuss about anyway? We'll settle this nowonce and for all."
A ripple of applause and hand-clapping ran through the stands as Vareturned to face the pit at the far end of the runway, and glanced downthe narrow way now hedged with faces. He was a champion of champions,and would show them how a champion jumped. But not that time, for hisbest effort fell under twenty-three feet.
Surprised at his poor jump, he lost his composure and, against theadvice of his friends, took a second jump without rest, and that,too, fell below his jump of twenty-three feet.
The news that Armstrong had equaled Vare's best jump spread to thelocker rooms of the two teams, and excitement ran high. What hadseemed like an event lost for a certainty to the Americans, had in amoment been turned into a possibility.
McGregor had taken his last jump without changing the situation inany way. Thereafter he devoted himself to encouraging Armstrong,whose magnificent leap had raised the hopes of the whole Americancontingent. "You have him now, Frank," McGregor whispered as, witharm over Frank's shoulder, the two walked down the runway. "He lethimself get cold, and I'll bet he can't reach twenty-three feetagain."
But McGregor was mistaken. Vare, the champion, after he had hadmore life rubbed into his muscles, shot down the runway and clearedtwenty-three feet, one inch and a half. A little scattering cheerfrom the Englishmen, and Vare sat down on the jumpers' bench, hisface showing the relief he felt. "I'm all right now," he said to ananxious, inquiring teammate, "but I felt jolly well frozen thosefirst two jumps, though."
"The meet," bawled the announcer, facing the grand stand, "now standssix events for America and six for England, with the broad-jumpstill to be decided. Vare, of Oxford, has the longest jump to hiscredit--twenty-three feet, one and a half inches, which he madein breaking the tie created by Armstrong, of Yale, with a jump oftwenty-three feet, which is _his_ best at present."
At this moment Captain Harrington came onto the track in streetclothes. He walked up to Frank: "Armstrong," he said, "Jack toldme all about your troubles getting here. I want to tell you youmade a game fight to correct the original mistake. I know you werepersonally not at fault. Here's my hand on it!"
Frank took the proffered hand. His captain had taken him back intothe fold, and his heart swelled almost to the bursting point withsudden joy. If Frank needed anything to make him unbeatable thatafternoon, the thing had come to pass. "I'll try to justify yourfaith in me," was all he said, but his eyes shone with a new light.
Coming down the runway with a surpassing rush of speed, he hit thetake-off perfectly on his next trial, and soared into the air.Spectators, who saw him, said afterward that he seemed to take astep at the highest point of his flight, but it was only the firstappearance of the famous "scissors hitch" used by other great jumpersbefore him, and which he had simply happened on, in his endeavorto get great distance. He struck squarely on his feet in almost asitting posture, but his impetus carried him forward so powerfullythat he pitched head-first into the soft loam of the pit. He heldevery inch of his great jump, however.
For it was a great jump. That could be seen by anyone, and theofficials and trackmen gathered around while a careful measurementwas taken. The serene Vare was sufficiently stirred himself to crowdclose to the pit.
"What is it, what is it?" snapped Harrington who could hardly awaitthe rather deliberate speech of the man at the end of the steel tape,who was taking his time to make certain.
"Twenty-three feet, four inches!"
The cheer of the small group of men on the track itself was taken asa good omen by the Americans in the stand, and these latter at oncedelivered themselves of a full-grown yell, which echoed back from thebrick dwellings which surround the field.
"Twenty-three feet, four inches!" came the announcement, bawled toall sides of the field through the megaphone, and again the Americanyells broke out.
In the storm of cheering which Frank's great jump had elicited,Vare was seen to rise to his feet and walk slowly to the start ofthe runway. Two of his teammates went with him, and at each of hisimportant marks he stopped and scrutinized them carefully as if hewas not sure in his own mind that they were just right. Twice hetried the full runway from the start to the take-off block, makingnew marks for his guidance.
And now, being quite ready, he made his first of the three triesallotted to him. On the first he cleared twenty-three feet, twoinches, and on the second bettered this mark by half an inch.
"Only an inch and a half behind you, Armstrong," said McGregor, in anervous staccato, "but I'll eat my shoes, spikes and all, if he canequal that one of yours."
"If he does," said Frank, "it's all over, I'm afraid. How I came toget that far out is more than I can understand. It's a dream, don'twake me!"
Silence settled over the crowd as Vare faced the pit for his lasttrial. His face was drawn and white. Now he moves forward, crouchinga little, with chin out and jaws tightly clenched. The loping rundevelops at half distance into a sweeping rush, the Englishman hitsthe take-off squarely, and leaps with every ounce of energy in hisbody--up, up, out, out, he goes, while the spectators at the trackside hold their breaths. Now he has reached the full height of hisjump, and is coming down. Will his drive carry him far enough to win?He is down in the pit, topped over by the impetus of his rush, butthe jump is clean, and the measurers are at work.
Carefully the tape is placed, carefully it is read, and then----
"Twenty-three feet, three and one-quarter inches," comes theannouncement.
/> The Americans go mad now indeed, for the meet is won, since theOxford champion has failed to equal Armstrong's magnificent jump bythree-quarters of an inch, not much, it is true, but enough to makethe difference between victory and defeat.
Just as the jubilation was at its height, a dusty, grimy youth, inwhat were once white flannels, rushed through the gate, and threwhimself on Frank as the latter was being escorted like a young princeof the blood to the club house.
"I knew you would do it, you old lobster," cried the newcomer, whowas none other than Codfish Gleason. "Sorry I couldn't get in at thedeath, but I was arrested three times for moving too fast for theseJohnnies, and paid a five-pound fine every time. I couldn't have gonemuch further for my money was running short."
To say that Frank Armstrong was the hero of the occasion is to tellonly a part of the truth. The youngest man on either team hadachieved the greatest glory, and his teammates were not slow inacknowledging the fact. At the dinner that night in London, given tomembers of the four teams, Frank was called on to make a speech, andit was the shortest on record: "I did the best I could," after whichhe sat down covered with confusion, amid loud applause.
The next day came the sight-seeing in London and some of the nearbytowns, and then a generous and thankful management stood the expenseof a trip for the American winners to Amsterdam, to Cologne, toLausanne, where the song-birds of the party serenaded the girls'school there, and then to Paris, with many side trips. But, in spiteof the beauties and wonders of the strange countries, Frank saidafterward that the best sight of all was the shores of Long Islandviewed from the deck of the homing Cunarder.
Frank Armstrong at College Page 15
