Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner Part 4

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

A final rub-down and Bert was ready. A last slap on the shoulder from d.i.c.k, a word of caution from Reddy, a howl of welcome from the Blues as he came in sight, and he trotted to the starting line where forty more were gathered. He threw off his sweater, and clad only in his light tunic and running trunks, with a blue sash about his waist, faced the starter. Like a young Viking he stood there, lithe and alert, in his eye the light of combat, in his veins the blood of youth, in his heart the hope 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 of greeting and encouragement nerved them to the struggle. In a twinkling they 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 out for him. It was not that there was any phenomenal burst of speed that tended to take him off his feet. At this he would merely have smiled at that stage of the game. Sprinting just then would have been suicidal.

But it was rather the air of tension, of grim determination, of subtle craftiness 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 a comparative novice. They knew every trick of the racing game. Their judgment of pace, based on long experience, was such that without the aid of a watch they could tell within a few seconds the time of every mile 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 saying of 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 any one's race so far. But stamina and speed were beginning to tell. That indefinable something called "cla.s.s" made itself felt. Some were faltering in their stride, others laboring heavily for breath. Sometimes the laggards made despairing sprints that partly closed the gap between them and the leaders, but, unable to maintain the pace, fell back again to the ruck.

Running easily and keeping himself well in hand, Bert at the end of the twelfth mile was bunched with five others up in front. He knew now whom he 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 felt that he had their measure. He had beaten them once and could do it again.

On his right was a little Irishman with a four-leaved clover--the emblem of 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 runner from Carlisle, tall and gaunt, with an impa.s.sive face. The other bore the winged-foot emblem that told of members.h.i.+p in the most famous athletic club in the East.

Mile after mile pa.s.sed, and still they hung on. The little Irishman was wabbling, but still fighting gamely. Brady had "bellows to mend." Bert could hear his breath coming in long, hoa.r.s.e gasps that told of strength rapidly failing. The Indian had ranged alongside, going strong. Behind him still padded the feet of the remaining runner.

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

A groan burst from the Blue partisans at the accident. d.i.c.k hid his face in his hands and Reddy danced up and down and said things that the recording angel, it is to be hoped, omitted to set down, in view of the provocation.

Dazed and bruised, Bert struggled to his feet. He was not seriously hurt, but badly shaken. He looked about and then the full extent of the calamity 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 the Indian and he of the winged-foot, running neck and neck, had opened up a gap of five hundred feet.

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V

THE FLOATING RACE-TRACK

Just what followed Bert never clearly remembered. A hurricane of cheers, a sea of spectators, d.i.c.k's face white as chalk, Reddy's like a flame of fire. Then the jubilant trainer thrust a way through the howling mob and led him to his dressing room. An immense fatigue was on him. His heart wanted to come out of his body and his legs weighed a ton. But deep down in his consciousness was a measureless content. He had won. Again the dear old college had pinned its faith to him and again her colors had been the first to cross the line.

A long cooling-out process followed, and then came the bath and rub-down. The strain had been enormous, but his vitality reacted quickly, and under Reddy's skillful ministrations he was soon himself again.

It was a jolly party that took the special train of the Blues back to college. More than their share of the events had fallen to them. Drake, Axtell, Hinchman, Martin and Bert were the center of a hilarious group, who kept demanding at short intervals "who was all right" and answering the questions themselves by shouting the names of their victorious athletes. Not since that memorable day when Bert's fadeaway ball had won the pennant had their cup of satisfaction been so full to overflowing.

The lion's share of the applause naturally fell to Bert, not only because the Marathon was more important than any other feature, but on account of the accident that had come so near to ruining his hopes and which he had so gallantly retrieved.

"Gee, Bert," said d.i.c.k, "I can't tell you how I felt when I saw you go down in that mix-up. Just when you were getting ready to make your run, too. I'd been studying your gait right along and I knew by the way you were going that you had plenty in reserve. I was counting the race already won. But when you went into that tangle of legs and arms, I figured that it was all up with us."

"I thought so myself," answered Bert, "that is, as soon as I could think anything. At first my head went round like a top, and for a second or two I didn't know where I was. Then I saw the heels of the fellows way up in front and I made up my mind that they should see mine."

"And they did all right," chuckled Drake, "but it was a hundred to one shot that they wouldn't. That run of yours was the pluckiest thing I ever saw, as well as the speediest. Like the 'Charge of the Light Brigade,' it sure was a forlorn hope."

"Well," said Bert, "it's like baseball. The game's never over until the last man is out in the ninth inning, no matter how far the other fellows may be ahead. As it was, I only got there by the narrowest of squeaks.

That winged-foot fellow put up a nervy fight. By the way, how is Brady?

I hope he wasn't hurt by the tumble."

"Oh, he's all right," answered Axtell. "He sc.r.a.ped a big patch of skin off his thigh, but he came staggering along and finished among the first ten. The showing he made was good enough to guarantee that he'll be taken along with the rest of us."

But just then Reddy the tyrant--a very good-natured tyrant at present--intervened, and although they protested that they were too excited to sleep, shooed them off to their berths.

"Tell that to the marines," he grinned. "Ye'll be asleep before your head fairly touches the pillow." And, as usual in things physical, Reddy was right.

The next few weeks were exceedingly busy ones. Examinations were coming on and Bert was up to his eyes in work. He had never let sport interfere with his studies and his standing in the cla.s.s room had been as high as his reputation on the track. Then there were the countless odds and ends to be attended to that always acc.u.mulate at the end of the college year. Every day, without fail, Reddy put him through his paces, having in mind the forthcoming ocean voyage when regular training would be difficult and limited.

Tom in the meantime had returned, still bearing some traces of his terrible ordeal in the mountains. The poison had been eliminated from his system, thanks to the doctor's skill and the careful oversight of Mr. Hollis, but he was not yet his former self. It had been decided that a sea trip was the one thing needed to bring about his entire restoration to health. d.i.c.k had no such excuse, but he had put it up to his parents with so much force that he simply _must_ see the Olympics that they had at last consented. By dint of much correspondence and influence exerted in the right quarters, they had been able to arrange for pa.s.sage on the same steamer that was to convey Bert and the rest of the Olympic team. So that the "Three Guardsmen," as they had been dubbed because they were always together, rejoiced at the prospect of a summer abroad under these rare conditions. And there were no happier young fellows than they in America on that memorable day when they went over the gang-plank of the steamer that was to carry them and their fortunes.

The _Northland_ had been specially chartered for the occasion. The contestants alone numbered nearly two hundred, and when to these were added trainers, rubbers, reporters, officials and favored friends, this figure was more than doubled. The Olympic Committee had done things in lavish style, and the funds contributed by lovers of sport all over the country had given them abundance of means. They had learned from previous experience the disadvantages of having the athletes go over on the regular liners. The rich food of the s.h.i.+p's tables, the formality that had to be observed, the cla.s.s distinctions of first, second and third cabins and the difficulty of keeping in condition had wrecked or lessened the chances of more than one promising candidate.

Now, with the vessel absolutely under their own control, subject of course to the captain and officers, all these troubles disappeared.

There were no cabin distinctions and all were on the same level. The food, while of course of the very best quality and wholesome and abundant, was prepared with a special view to the needs of the athletes.

There was no fixed schedule for the trip, and therefore no danger of overspeeding in order to reach port on time. Sn.o.bbishness and pretense were altogether absent. All were enthusiasts on athletics, all keenly interested in the coming games, and the healthy freemasonry of sport welded them into one great family. The boys had not been on board an hour before they felt perfectly at home. At every turn they met some one whom they knew more or less well from having already met them in compet.i.tion. There was Brady and Thornton and Casey, the little Irishman; and even the Indian, who had given Bert so much trouble to beat him, so far unbent from his usual gravity as to grin a welcome to his conqueror. The winged-foot man, Hallowell, shook hands cordially with a grip that bore no malice.

"The best man won that day," he smiled, "but I'm from Missouri and you'll have to show me that you can do it again."

"Your turn next," laughed Bert. "That was simply my lucky day."

"I think next time," continued Hallowell, "in addition to the winged-foot emblem, I'd better carry a rabbit's foot."

"Don't handicap me that way," said Bert, in mock alarm. "Why rob me altogether of hope?"

"Well," concluded Hallowell, "as long as America wins, it doesn't matter much which one of us 'brings home the bacon.'"

"Right you are," rejoined Bert, heartily.

And this spirit prevailed everywhere. Rivalry was keen, but it was not bitter. There was no malice or meanness about it. Each could admire and applaud the prowess of a rival. Naturally every one wanted to win, but above the personal feeling rose the national. As long as America won, nothing else mattered very much. "Old Glory" floated from the stem and stern of the great steamer. It floated also in their hearts.

The _Northland_ had been put in the Committee's hands some weeks previous to the time of sailing, and in that brief period they had worked wonders. The s.h.i.+p had been transformed into an immense gymnasium.

It was intended that regular practice should be indulged in every day of the trip when the weather permitted. Of course, as "all signs fail in dry weather," so all exercise would have to be suspended in stormy weather. But at that time of the year storms were infrequent on the Atlantic, and it was probable that there would be little loss of time on that account.