Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner

by John Kendrick Bangs

  CHAPTER IV

  A DESPERATE STRUGGLE

  Tom mended fast, though not in time to go back with Bert and Dick, andMr. Hollis insisted that he should stay a week or ten days longer at thelodge until he had fully recovered.

  The precious week of vacation passed only too quickly, and promptly onthe day that college resumed, Bert, faithful to his promise, was back atwork. He had carefully kept up his practice, and this, combined with theinvigorating mountain air, had put him in splendid shape. As he confidedto Dick, "if he'd felt any better he'd have been afraid of himself." Sothat when he reported to Reddy and submitted to his inspection, eventhat austere critic could find no fault with the sinewy athlete whosmilingly extended his hand.

  "By the powers," he said, as he looked him up and down approvingly, "Idid a good thing to let you go. You're fine as silk and trained to thehour. If looks count for anything you could go in now and break therecord. Get out on the cinder path and let me time you for a five-milespin."

  With the eye of a lynx, he noted Bert's action as he circled the track.Nothing escaped him. The erect carriage, the arms held close to hissides, the hip and knee movement, the feet scarcely lifted from theground, the long, easy stride that fairly ate up space, the dilatednostrils through which he breathed while keeping the mouth firmlyclosed, the broad chest that rose and fell with no sign of strain orlabor--above all, the sense of reserve power that told of resources heldback until the supreme moment called for them--all these marks of theborn runner the trainer noted with keen satisfaction; and he waschuckling to himself when he snapped shut his split-second watch andthrust it in his pocket.

  "He'll have to break a leg to lose," he gloated. "That lad is in a classby himself. I'm none too sure of the other events, but we sure have thisone cinched. We'll win in a walk."

  But while he thus communed with himself, he carefully abstained fromsaying as much to Bert. He had seen too many promising athletes ruinedby overconfidence. Besides, while he felt sure that Bert could take themeasure of any one now known to him as a runner, he couldn't tell butwhat some "dark horse" would be uncovered at the general meet who wouldbring all his hopes tumbling about his head like a house of cards. Toomany "good things" had gone wrong in his experience not to make himcautious. So it was with well-simulated indifference that he held up hishand at the end of the fifth mile.

  "That's enough for to-day," he commanded. "To-morrow we'll start in withthe real work. We only have a scant two weeks left before the New Yorkmeet and we'll need every minute of it."

  And Bert bent himself to his task with such earnestness and good willthat when at last the great day of the final meet arrived he was at thetop of his form. Neither he nor Reddy would have any excuses to offer oranything to reproach themselves with, if he failed to show his heels tothe field.

  And, as Dick remarked, when they entered the gate of the mammoth park,it "was certainly some field." From every section of the country theyhad gathered--burly giants from the Pacific slope, the slenderergreyhound type of the East--some from colleges, others wearing the badgeof famous athletic clubs--all of them in superb condition and allpassionately bent on winning. To carry off a trophy in such company wasa distinction to be prized. And, in addition to the ordinary incentives,was the international character of the event. Before the eyes of eachhung the lure of a European trip and the opportunity of proving onforeign fields that the picked athletes of America could lead theworld. Patriotism was blended with personal ambition and they formed apowerful combination.

  Moreover, the chances of being chosen were much greater than is usual insuch contests. Not only the winner in each event was to make the trip,but the man who came in second or third or even farther down the listwould go. The Committee was not going to "put all its eggs in onebasket." The chances of sickness or accident or change of climate weretoo many to justify them in depending upon a single competitor to carrythe colors of his country in any given struggle. Thus in the polevaulting, hammer throwing, swimming, hurdling, javelin casting, therewould be from three to six competitors each. In the Marathon--mostimportant of all--as many as a dozen would probably be taken. So thatall were buoyed up by the hope that even if some luckier or better mancarried off first honors to-day, they still might be of the elect, ifthey were well up at the finish.

  It was a striking and animated scene that the great park presented. Afamous regimental band played national airs and "Old Glory" floatedproudly over the judges' pavilion. The stands were packed with a vastmultitude that overflowed on the lawns, while on the inner track groupsof contenders indulged in preliminary practice and loosened up theirmuscles before the games began. Then the bell rang, the tracks werecleared and the throng settled down to watch the performance of theirfavorites.

  Fortune was kind to the Blues that day and their number was hoisted morethan once on the bulletin board. Burly Drake cast the discus one hundredand thirty-four feet. Axtell won the standing broad jump and set themark at eleven feet, two inches. Hinchman was second in the half-mile,and Martin cleared the pole at a height of twelve feet, one inch. Bertand Dick exulted at the showing of their Alma Mater and Reddy tried invain to conceal his delight under a mask of grim indifference.

  At last the time came for the Marathon. Eighteen miles was to be thelimit, as the Committee agreed with Reddy that the actual Marathondistance might well be deferred until the day of the actual race. It wasa fair presumption that those who showed up best at the end of theeighteen miles would be best prepared to cover the full distance oftwenty-six when they had to face that heart-breaking test.

  A final rub-down and Bert was ready. A last slap on the shoulder fromDick, a word of caution from Reddy, a howl of welcome from the Blues ashe came in sight, and he trotted to the starting line where forty morewere gathered. He threw off his sweater, and clad only in his lighttunic and running trunks, with a blue sash about his waist, faced thestarter. Like a young Viking he stood there, lithe and alert, in his eyethe light of combat, in his veins the blood of youth, in his heart thehope of triumph.

  A moment's breathless pause. Then the pistol cracked and they were off.

  As they rushed in a compact body past the stand, a tremendous roar ofgreeting and encouragement nerved them to the struggle. In a twinklingthey were rounding the first turn and the race was fairly on.

  They had not gone a mile before Bert knew that he had his work cut outfor him. It was not that there was any phenomenal burst of speed thattended to take him off his feet. At this he would merely have smiled atthat stage of the game. Sprinting just then would have been suicidal.But it was rather the air of tension, of grim determination, of subtlecraftiness that made itself felt as in none of his previous races.Many of these men, especially the members of the athletic clubs,were veterans who had competed at a score of meets, while he was acomparative novice. They knew every trick of the racing game. Theirjudgment of pace, based on long experience, was such that without theaid of a watch they could tell within a few seconds the time of everymile they made. Hard as nails, holders of records, intent of purpose,they might well inspire respect and fear.

  Respect--yes. Fear--no. There flashed across Bert's mind a quaint sayingof Reddy's about pugilists: "The bigger they are the harder they fall."And he ran on.

  Gradually the group spread out like a fan. None had quit, for it was anyone's race so far. But stamina and speed were beginning to tell. Thatindefinable something called "class" made itself felt. Some werefaltering in their stride, others laboring heavily for breath. Sometimesthe laggards made despairing sprints that partly closed the gap betweenthem and the leaders, but, unable to maintain the pace, fell back againto the ruck.

  Running easily and keeping himself well in hand, Bert at the end of thetwelfth mile was bunched with five others up in front. He knew now whomhe had to beat. Thornton was at his left, and Brady a little in front.But these did not worry him. Magnificent runners as they were, he feltthat he had their measure. He had beaten them once and could do itagain.

  On h
is right was a little Irishman with a four-leaved clover--the emblemof his club--embroidered on his sleeve. Behind him pounded two others,like wolves on the flank of a deer. One of them was an Indian runnerfrom Carlisle, tall and gaunt, with an impassive face. The other borethe winged-foot emblem that told of membership in the most famousathletic club in the East.

  Mile after mile passed, and still they hung on. The little Irishman waswabbling, but still fighting gamely. Brady had "bellows to mend." Bertcould hear his breath coming in long, hoarse gasps that told of strengthrapidly failing. The Indian had ranged alongside, going strong. Behindhim still padded the feet of the remaining runner.

  At the sixteenth mile, Bert quickened his pace and called on hisreserve. His heart was thumping like a trip-hammer and his legs wereweary, but his wind was good. He left the Irishman behind him and waspassing Brady, when the latter swerved from sheer fatigue right inBert's path and they went down in a heap.

  A groan burst from the Blue partisans at the accident. Dick hid his facein his hands and Reddy danced up and down and said things that therecording angel, it is to be hoped, omitted to set down, in view of theprovocation.

  Dazed and bruised, Bert struggled to his feet. He was not seriouslyhurt, but badly shaken. He looked about and then the full extent of thecalamity burst upon him.

  The downfall had acted on the other runners like an electric shock.Thornton and the Irishman were two hundred feet in front, while theIndian and he of the winged-foot, running neck and neck, had opened up agap of five hundred feet.

  Had it been earlier in the race he would still have had a chance. Butnow with only a mile and a half to go, the accident threatened to befatal to his hopes. The others had gained new life from this unexpectedstroke of luck, and it was certain that they would not easily let gotheir advantage. To win now would be almost a miracle.

  With savage resolution he pulled himself together. His dizzy braincleared. Never for a second did he think of quitting. Disaster spurredhim on to greater efforts. The Blues roared their delight as they sawtheir champion start out to overtake the flyers, now so far in front,and even the followers of the other candidates joined generously in theapplause. A crowd loves pluck and here was a fellow who was game to thevery core of him.

  Link by link he let himself out. The track slipped away beneath him. Thestands were a mere blur of color. At the turn into the last mile hepassed the nervy little Irishman, and a quarter of a mile further on hecollared Thornton. Foot by foot he gained on the two others. At thehalf, he ranged alongside the Indian who was swaying drunkenly from sideto side, killed off by the terrific pace. Only one was left now, but hewas running like the wind.

  Now Bert threw away discretion. He summoned every ounce of grit andstrength that he possessed. With great leaps he overhauled hisadversary. Down they came toward the crowded stands, fighting for thelead. The Blues tried to sing, but in their excitement they could onlyyell. The crowd went crazy. All were on their feet, bending far over towatch the desperate struggle. On they came to the line, first one, thenthe other, showing a foot in front. Within ten feet of the line Bertgathered himself in one savage bound, hurled himself against the tapeand fell in the arms of his exulting mates. He had won by inches.