For the Honor of Randall: A Story of College Athletics

by Lester Chadwick

  CHAPTER XXXI

  AT THE GAMES

  It was a day to be proud of--a day when nature was at her best. The sunshone, the sky was cloudless, the grass was green, and there was justenough wind to make it cool, without endangering any such delicateoperation as putting a fifty-six pound weight, or interfere with anathlete hurling himself over the crossbar in the pole vault.

  "Say, things couldn't be better!" cried Tom, as he jumped out of bed,and stood at the open window, breathing in the balmy air. "It's a goodthing Randall's luck postponed the games a week."

  "Feeling fit?" asked Frank.

  "As a fiddle. Say, old man, I wish you were with us," and Tom put hisarm around the Big Californian.

  "Oh, well, you'll win without me, and maybe I'll be with you--nexttime," replied Frank, with the semblance of a laugh. None but himselfknew the bitterness of his heart, and how much of a strain it had beenfor him to step aside, "for the honor of Randall," when he was sure, inhis own mind, that he was in the right, and that not a blot ofprofessionalism stained his record.

  "Come on, Sid," urged Tom, as he pulled the blankets off his stillslumbering chum. "As the old school readers used to say: 'The sun is up,and we are up, too.' Tumble out, and get your lungs full of good air.Then we'll have a bit of breakfast and do some practice."

  "Um!" grunted Sid, and he rolled out.

  All was astir at Randall, and so, too, in the other colleges. For,though the games did not take place until afternoon, there was much yetto do, many final arrangements to make, and the candidates, nervous asyoung colts, wanted a last try-out.

  Running and jumping shoes had to be looked after, tights and shirtsin which were rents, or from which buttons were missing, were beingrepaired by the rough and ready surgery of the college lads.

  "This is the time when I wish we were at Fairview," remarked Tom, as hegingerly handled a needle, repairing a tear in his shirt.

  "Why?" demanded Sid.

  "So I could ask some of the girls to fix these rips. I never can getused to a thimble."

  "Same here," agreed Phil. "I shove it through with a nail file."

  "Threading a needle gets my goat," confessed Sid. "Some authorities sayto hold the thread still, and shove the needle at it. Other text booksclaim that the only proper way is to stick the needle upright in yourknee and, after shutting your eyes, keep poking the thread at it untilyou make a hit. Then knot it and proceed as directed."

  "I never can get the right kind of a point on the thread," admittedFrank. "It's always too long, and then it curls up, and shoots aroundthe needle like a drop curve, or else it's too short, and blunt, andbreaks the eye out of the needle."

  "There's some kind of a thimble, that you stick your needle in, and ithas a funnel so you can sort of drop your thread through it, and get itin the hole sooner or later," remarked Tom. "Guess I'll get one."

  "I had one of 'em," said Sid. "The trouble is that after you get theneedle in the thimble you can't get it out again, and you have to breakit off. Then you have to hunt up a new needle."

  "It's a wonder some fellow doesn't invent a kind of court plaster thatyou could stick over a tear, and mend it that way, as we do a cut,"suggested Phil. "I think I'll work on that, instead of my perpetualmotion machine after the games."

  Thus the jolly talk went on, until the lads, being excused from chapelfor that day, had gotten their athletic suits into some sort of shape,and had gone out on the field for a final practice.

  "Well, I trust the eleven will give a good account of itself to-day,"mildly remarked Dr. Churchill, as he met Holly and Kindlings with asquad of candidates. The doctor knew rather less about athletics thansome girls do of baseball.

  "It isn't football, to-day, Doctor," said Holly gently.

  "Oh, of course. I ought to know that. Football comes in the Fall. Thenine plays for the championship to-day, does it not? Ah, yes, I hope youwin both halves."

  "It's the track team that's going to compete--for the all-aroundchampionship," whispered Dr. Marshall, with a wink at the youngtrainers. "The track team, Dr. Churchill."

  "Ah, yes. I should have remembered. Well, I'm sure they will win," and,with this cheering remark, the head of Randall passed on, thinking of anew book on the history of Sanskrit that he contemplated writing.

  Out from their rooms, or the gymnasium, poured the athletes, eager asyoung colts, and as confident as all young lads are. Tom Parsons wasfully himself again, Dr. Marshall's treatment having put him on hisfeet. All efforts to learn more about the "doped" bottle of medicinehad been dropped, and very few in the college even knew about it.

  Sid, too, was trained to the minute, and the others, on whom Randallbased her hopes, gave every promise of making good. Yet there was alwaysthe chance of a "fluke," and Holly and Kindlings were desperatelynervous as they checked record after record, cast up table after tableof points, trying to figure out a more sure system for Randall to win.

  The last of the practice was over. The boys had done all that washumanly possible to warrant their success. Now it all depended on thefinal outcome.

  The athletes were to go to Tonoka Lake Park in autos, which had beensupplied by some of the wealthier students of Randall. The rank and filewould go in trolley cars, or any other way that suited them.

  "Well, we can't do any more," remarked Holly to Kindlings, as they stoodtogether, ready to start for the field. "We've done our best, and therest lies with our lads."

  "Oh, they'll make good, all right; don't worry," spoke Kindlingsconfidently. "Bean Perkins has a lot of new songs to cheer 'em with, andthen with the band playing, our colors flying, the crowd yelling, andthe girls looking pretty, why, we can't lose."

  "Cross your fingers," murmured Holly superstitiously, with a shortlaugh. "Cross your fingers, Dan, old man."

  "All up!" sung out Dutch Housenlager, as the autos came rolling up tothe gymnasium. "All up, fellows. It's do or die, now."

  "All ready!" yelled Bean Perkins. "A last cheer before we meet 'em atthe grounds, fellows."

  The cheer came with resounding energy, and when it had died away, someone called for "_Aut Vincere, Aut Mori!_" "Either We Conquer, or weDie!"

  The sweetly solemn strains of the Latin song rang out over the campus,as the competing team rolled away in the autos, waving their hands attheir fellows.

  "Hang it all, it seems like a funeral!" murmured Sid.

  "Cut that out, you heathen!" ordered Phil, thumping his chum on theback.

  "Feeling nervous?" asked Frank of Tom, to whom he sat next in the bigcar, for, though the Big Californian was not to compete, he rode withhis chums.

  "Just a little. I'm always thinking that I'll slip, or--something----"

  "Let the other fellow do the worrying," suggested Frank, and it was goodadvice.

  It was not a long ride to Tonoka Park, and when the autos containing theathletes came in sight of it, the lads saw the grounds gay in colors,while a big throng was already on hand. The strains of a band could beheard, and there were cheers and songs, for the crowds from Boxer Halland Fairview were already in evidence.

  "My! There's a mob!" remarked Tom, as they swung up to the part of thefield set apart for them.

  "And look at the girls!" added Phil, as he waved his hand toward asection of the grandstand where the maids of Fairview were gathered.

  "Will we have time to see 'em before we dress?" asked Sid.

  "Oh, you'll make it, whether you have or not," retorted Frank. "You'regetting it bad."

  "Dry up!" ordered Sid sententiously.

  They left their suit cases in the dressing rooms assigned to them, andstarted across the field toward the stand where they hoped to see RuthClinton and her chums.

  As they walked along Tom started, and stared toward a section of thecrowd.

  "What's up?" asked Phil.

  "I--I thought I saw Shambler," spoke Tom in a low voice.

  "Nonsense! He wouldn't dare show his face here," said Phil.

  "I guess not," agreed Tom, and he dismi
ssed the matter.

  "Here we are!" cried Ruth, as she spied her brother and his friends."And we haven't got your colors, either."

  She shook a flag of Fairview in his face.

  "Pooh!" replied Phil. "Enough other girls have 'em," and he waved hishand toward a part of the stand where the young lady cohorts of Randallsported the yellow and maroon.

  Tom greeted Madge Tyler, and, as he stood beside her, he caught aglimpse of something yellow beneath the lapel of her light cloak.

  "What's that?" he asked.

  "Don't tell," she whispered, "or I'd be tried for treason, but--I justcouldn't help it," and, with a cautious glance around, she showed him atiny bow of Randall's colors, under those of her own college. "I--I justhope you'll win!" she whispered, and Tom pressed her hand as he murmuredhis thanks.