Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner

by John Kendrick Bangs

  CHAPTER XVII

  A GLORIOUS VICTORY

  It was a perfect day for the great race that was to settle thelong-distance championship of the world. The sun shone brightly, but nottoo hotly, and there was a light breeze sufficient to cool the runners,but not retard their progress.

  The Marathon was to start at three in the afternoon at a pointtwenty-six miles away from the Stadium. The most detailed preparationshad been made for the event. The distance had been carefully measuredoff by expert surveyors, and policed from end to end in order to keep aclear path for the racers and see that the rules were strictly observed.At every hundred feet stood a group of soldiers. All traffic had beensuspended by an imperial order. An ambulance, with Red Cross doctors andnurses, was to follow and pick up any who might fall out or be overcomewith exhaustion.

  The contestants had been taken to the starting point in automobiles thenight before, so that they might get a good night's sleep and be inprime condition. Now the temporary training quarters were humming withbustle and excitement. The last bath and rubdown and kneading of themuscles were over and the final words of caution and encouragementspoken, as the fellows lined up in readiness for the starter's pistol.

  Bert, in superb condition, his skin glowing, his muscles rippling, shookhands with his friends, as he stood waiting for the start.

  "For the good old college, Bert," said Drake.

  "For the team," barked Reddy.

  "For the flag," said Tom.

  "For America," added Dick.

  "I'll remember," answered Bert, as he touched the flag at his waist, andthe look came into his eyes that they had learned to know.

  A moment's breathless silence, while over a hundred trained athleteswatched the starter, as he looked along the waiting line and slowlyraised his pistol. A shot, a tremendous roar from the crowd, a rush offeet like a stampede of steers and they were off. A moment later Berlinknew that they had started. Five minutes later, all Europe knew it. Tenminutes later, America knew it. Two continents were watching the race,and beneath the gaze of these invisible witnesses the runners boundedon. All types were there; brawny Germans, giant Swedes, stolidEnglishmen, rangy Canadians, dapper Frenchmen, swarthy Italians, litheAmericans--each one bound to win or go down fighting.

  At first the going was rather hard on account of the great number ofcontenders. They got in each other's way. They were like a herd offleeing deer, treading on each other's heels.

  Bert's first impulse was to get out in front. Like every thoroughbred,he hated to have anyone show him the way. The sight of a runner aheadwas like a red rag to a bull. But he restrained himself. If he were towin that race, he must use his brains as well as his legs. What use towaste his strength by trying to thread his way through those flyingfeet? Let them make the pace. By and by they would string out and thepath would clear. In the meantime he would keep within strikingdistance.

  As he ran on easily, Thornton ranged alongside.

  "May I go with you, my pretty maid?" he grinned.

  "You may if you like, kind sir, she said," retorted Bert.

  "We must make it one, two, three for America, to-day," went on Thornton.

  "That's the way to talk," replied Bert, and then, as breath wasprecious, they subsided.

  The course led uphill and down, over country roads and throughvillages whose quaint beauty would have appealed to Bert under othercircumstances. But to-day he had no eye for scenery, no thought ofanything but the road that stretched before him like a ribbon, and theStadium, so many miles away.

  Five miles, ten, and the pace began to tell. Some had dropped outaltogether and others were staggering. The sheep were being separatedfrom the goats. The real runners were ranging up in front, watching eachother like hawks, intent on seizing any advantage. Most of them by thistime had found their second wind and settled into their stride. Somewere running on a schedule and paid no attention to their competitors,serenely confident that in the long run their plan would carry themthrough.

  But Bert had no use for schedules. To him they were like the schemes tobreak the bank at Monte Carlo, infallible on paper, but falling downsadly when put to the test. As he had told Tom on an earlier occasion,"it was men, not time, that he had to beat." So he kept a wary eye onthe men in front and sped along with that easy swinging lope that seemedso easy to beat until one tried to do it.

  Now fifteen miles had been covered and Bert let out a link. It would notdo to wait too long before challenging the leaders. Dorner, the German,and Boudin, the Frenchman, were already far enough ahead to make himfeel a trifle uneasy. Hallowell too and the Indian were a quarter of amile in front and showed no signs of wavering. Now was the time to wearthem down. Almost insensibly he lengthened his stride and with everyleap decreased the distance. The crowd that lined the road, quick todetect the spurt, hailed him with cheers as he sped past, and the men infront, sensing danger, themselves put on extra speed and battled toretain the lead.

  And now, Nature took a hand. A thunder storm that had been brewing for ahalf hour past, broke suddenly at the eighteenth mile, and the rain camedown in torrents. It beat against their faces and drenched them to theskin. It cooled and refreshed their heated bodies, but it made thefooting slippery and uncertain. It taxed, too, their strength andvitality, already strained to the utmost.

  In the wild tumult of the elements, Bert exulted. The thunder roared,the lightning flashed, and his own spirit shouted in unison. It appealedto something primitive and elemental in his nature. And as he ran on inthe gathering darkness, the vivid lightning playing in blinding flashesabout his lithe figure and tossing hair, he seemed like a faun or ayoung god in the morning of the world, rather than a product of thetwentieth century.

  But he was quickly enough brought back to reality. He had overhauledHallowell and the Indian, and set sail for the French and Germanrunners, when, just as he dashed round the foot of a hill, he slipped onthe wet going and swerved against a rock at the edge of the road. A keenpain shot through his foot, and he saw to his dismay that his right shoehad been slit from end to end by the sharp edge of the rock. The injuryto the foot was only a scratch, but, when he tried to run, the shoeflapped loosely and threatened to throw him. A great fear came upon him,and his heart turned sick.

  In the meantime, Reddy and the boys had ridden back by another road toBerlin. The trainer dropped Tom and Dick at the Stadium and then whirledback to the hotel. Here the American band was quartered and down thisstreet the runners were to pass. Reddy sought out the leader. A shortconference and the band gathered in full force on the balconyoverlooking the street.

  Reddy glanced at his watch. They must be coming now. The leader poisedhis baton expectantly.

  "Wait," said Reddy confidently, "till the first one gets abreast of thehotel. Then let her go for all you're worth."

  Minutes passed that seemed like hours. Then there was a stir among thecrowds, a craning of necks, a murmur growing into a roar, and theleading runner came in sight. Reddy took one look and turned pale. Theleader lifted his baton as the runner drew nearer.

  "Not yet," cried Reddy, clutching at him fiercely. "Not yet."

  A second runner appeared and then a third.

  "Not yet," groaned Reddy. "O, hivins, not yet."

  Then down the street came a flying figure. Reddy needed no secondglance. He knew that giant stride, those plunging leaps. On he came likea thunderbolt, and the crowd drew back as though from a runaway horse.

  "Now," screamed Reddy. "Now."

  And in one great crash the band broke out into the glorious strains of"The Star Spangled Banner."

  Bert lifted his head. The music poured through his veins like liquidfire and his heart almost leaped from his body. His strength had beenoozing away, his breath was coming in sobs. His shoes had been torn offand cast aside, his bruised feet tortured him at every stride, and everyounce of power had been cruelly taxed in the effort to close up the gapcaused by the accident. Now he was running on his nerve. And just atthis moment, like an elect
ric shock to his ebbing strength, came thethrilling strains that might have stirred the dead:

  "The Star Spangled Banner, oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave."

  The flag, his flag, "Old Glory," never stained by defeat since it wasflung to the breeze, victorious in every war for a hundred years, itsshining stars undimmed by time, the pride and boast of the greatestcountry on God's green earth! His feverish fingers touched the sash athis waist. "We have met the enemy and they are ours." The Star-SpangledBanner!

  Now he was running like a man possessed. Gone was pain, gone werebruises, gone the deadly weariness that dragged him down. His feet hadwings. His heart sang. His eyes shone. He seemed inspired by superhumanstrength. Like an arrow he shot past the Frenchman who was staggering ongamely, and step by step he gained on Dorner, the gallant German, whohad been dubbed by his admirers "The Flying Dutchman."

  Flying he certainly was, spurred on by the wild yells of the Germancrowds, mad with joy at seeing their colors in front. But the shoutsdied down as Bert slipped by like a shadow, relentless as fate, close onthe heels of the leader, grimly fighting for every inch.

  And now the Stadium loomed up, gay with flaunting flags, and packed tothe doors with a countless multitude wild with excitement. The word hadbeen flashed along that a German was leading, and the crowds were ontheir feet, screaming like madmen. The Emperor and royal family, allceremony thrown aside, were standing and shouting like the rest. TheAmerican contingent, despair eating at their hearts, sat glum andsilent.

  The twenty-six miles had been measured to end at the very doors, and theremaining three hundred and eighty-five yards of the Marathon distancewas in the Stadium itself. Dorner entered first and Pandemonium reigned.Then a second figure shot through, running like the wind, at his beltthe Stars and Stripes. And now it was America's turn to yell!

  Down the stretch they came, see-sawing for the lead. Before them gleamedthe tape that marked the finish. No one had ever yet broken that tapeahead of Bert in a race. He swore that no one should do it now.

  Nearer and nearer. What was it the fellows had said? "For the college.""For the team." "For the flag." "For America." He nerved himself for thelast desperate spurt. Once more he called on the stout heart that hadnever failed him yet. A series of panther-like bounds, one wildtremendous leap and he snapped the tape. Again America had matched itsbest against the world, and again America had conquered!

  * * * * *

  It was a jubilant crowd that made the return voyage on the _Northland_,in the words of Tom, "one continuous joy ride." Training was over, thestrain relaxed, the victory won. It had been a tussle from start tofinish, but they had carried off the prize and one more series ofOlympic games had been placed to Uncle Sam's credit. Thornton,Hallowell, Texanima, Brady and Casey had finished among the first tenand shared with Bert the honors of the Marathon. The Emperor himself hadplaced the laurel crown on Bert's head, and, as Dick said, provedhimself "a dead game sport" by the gracious words with which he veiledhis disappointment. Cable messages had poured in on Bert by the score,but none so pleasing as the one from Mr. Hollis: "You ran a magnificentrace, my boy. The Perry flag is yours."

  And now they were on their way home with their hard-won trophies--hometo an exulting country, whose glory they had upheld and which stoodimpatient to greet them with rousing cheers and open arms and all thehonors a grateful nation could bestow.

  The praises rained on Bert had left him as natural and unspoiled asever. To him the whole thing was simple. A task had been put before himand he had done it. That was all.

  "'Twas me that did it," joked Reddy, "me and the band."

  "Sure," laughed Dick, "though of course Bert's wind and speed countedfor something."

  "To say nothing of his grit and nerve," chimed in Tom.

  "'Twas this that did it," added Bert, as he reverently unfolded thefaded battle flag that had waved over Perry's glorious squadron."Running with this, I couldn't lose."

  On other fields of struggle and achievement that flag was to be hisinspiration. How fully he honored it, how nobly he fought for it, howstainless he kept it will be told in

  "BERT WILSON AT PANAMA."

  THE END

  Transcriber's Notes:

  --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores ( _italics_ ).

  --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.

  --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.

  --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.