For the Honor of Randall Part 49

"No, I'm not nervous. I want to win, Dan, but if I don't----"

"It won't be from lack of trying," was the reply. "Go on Tom, they're waiting for you."

But, in spite of the fact that Tom had said he was not nervous there was an unusual thumping of his heart. He tried to calm himself, but, the more he did so, the worse he seemed to get.

"Oh, hang it! This won't do!" he mused. "If Frank was running this race, he wouldn't be like this. I must think that I'm doing this for him.

Brace up! Even Shambler wouldn't flunk."

Tom felt better after that little lecture to himself by himself, and when he glanced across toward the grandstands, and saw a slim girlish figure suddenly spring up, and wave his colors at him, he felt a surge of elation and delight.

"That's Madge!" whispered Tom to himself. "I'm going to win! I'm going to win! For Randall and--her!"

The runners were in their places. The starter had raised his pistol.

Tom, for the first time, noticed that on his left was Langridge--his old enemy. Langridge had seen Miss Tyler's action, and he smiled mockingly at our hero.

"I'm going to win!" Tom told himself over and over again.

"On your marks!" cried the starter.

"They're going to run!" said Ruth Clinton to Madge, who sat next to her.

"I know it--I know it!" replied Madge nervously. "Oh, I do hope he wins!"

"Who, Roger Barns?" asked Ruth. "Evidently not though, since you waved the yellow and maroon."

"Of course not--you know who I mean," and Madge blushed.

Crack went the starter's pistol, and the runners were away on their course.

"They're off!" yelled Bean Perkins. "Now boys, the 'Conquer or Die,'

song, and sing it as you never sang it before. We want Tom to win, and our other lads to get second and third."

Our hero, running with all his might, heard the sweet strains wafted to him across the track, and he shut his lips grimly, and looked at Langridge out of the corners of his eyes.

The track was a half mile one, two laps being necessary to make the distance. As it was a big wide one, enabling all the contestants to start at once, there was no necessity for heats in this event. It could thus be decided more quickly.

On and on raced Tom. He felt a responsibility he had never experienced before, and it seemed as if he carried the whole weight of Randall on his shoulders, though Jerry and Joe Jackson were in the event. Tom was running well, and he knew he had a reserve of wind and strength for the final spurt. The last few days of practice had done much for him, and even his unfortunate illness had not pulled him down.

It was evident, soon after the start of the race, that it lay between Tom Parsons, Langridge of Boxer Hall and Sam Wendell of Exter. That was unless some of those who were strung out behind them should develop unexpected speed. And this was not likely.

A mile run is a matter of only seven minutes, or thereabouts, at the worst, for any performance slower than seven minutes and thirty-eight seconds scores nothing under the A. A. U. rules. And so the decision of the contest could not be long in doubt.

At the conclusion of the half mile Tom and Langridge were on even terms.

The foremost Exter lad had fallen back a few feet, and Tom's only fear was lest this contestant might be saving himself for a winning spurt.

"But I can spurt too!" thought our hero. "I'm going to win! I'm going to win!"

On and on they raced. Nearer and nearer to the goal they came. Breaths were coming faster and faster. It became harder and harder to get air into the laboring lungs. The weary muscles needed more and more urging to make them do their work.

"Can I do it? Can I do it?" Tom asked himself.

And the grim answer came.

"I've got to! I've got to!"

There was a mist before his eyes, and yet through it he seemed to see a fair, girlish figure waving a maroon and yellow flag at him. But the colors were blurred.

A singing came into Tom's ears. It sounded like the beating of the waves of the sea. His heart was a pump, working at double speed. His legs were like the pistons of some engine, darting back and forth. They did not seem to belong to him, but to be separate from his body.

Once or twice he thought of looking down, to make sure that they were fast to his trunk, but he knew he must keep his eyes ahead of him, and his head well up. Now and then he glanced across to where Langridge was running. The Boxer Hall lad was still in his place, even with Tom. The foremost Exter runner was still lagging behind.

"I've got to shake him off--shake Langridge," thought Tom, and it seemed as if he was someone else saying this.

The finish tape loomed in sight. The eager judges and timekeepers crowded to the course. Now was the time to spurt if ever.

"Come on, Tom! Come on!" yelled scores of encouraging voices, and once more Bean Perkins and his cohorts sang a song of victory.

"Langridge! Langridge!" cried his mates, and the Exter lad's fellows shouted to him to win.

On and on raced Tom. It seemed as if he could not keep it up. His legs were senseless--his feet like lead--his breath was all but gone.

"But I must do it! I must--for the honor of Randall!" he seemed to shout, yet no sound came from between his lips.

"Now!" yelled Holly Cross, who was watching Tom. "Come!"

It was the signal to spurt, and Tom put out his last ounce of strength in the leap forward. He breasted the tape, and, as he crossed the line he shot a hasty glance to either side.

He was alone! Langridge had faltered at the last. The Exter man was a poor third.

Tom had won the mile run!

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

SID'S GREAT JUMP

"Oh Tom!"

"Good old boy!"

"You did it! You did it!"

"I knew you would! Oh Tom!"

Everyone seemed to be calling to him at once. A score of arms sought to clasp Tom Parsons, a double score of hands were shot out to pat him on the back.