CHAPTER I
THE WINNER OF THE MILE

“All out for the mile!”

Myer, clerk of the course, stuck his head inside the dressing-tent and bawled the command in a voice already made hoarse by his afternoon’s duties. In response a dozen or so fellows gathered their blankets or dressing-gowns about them and tumbled out into the dusk of a mid-October evening. Because of the fact that on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons the athletic field was required for the football contests it was necessary to hold the Fall Handicap Meeting on one of the other days of the week. This year it was on Friday, October 17th, and because the Erskine College faculty does not permit athletic contests of any sort to begin before four o’clock on any day save Saturday, the mile run, the last event on the program, was not reached until almost six o’clock; and in the middle of October in the latitude of Centerport it is almost dark at that time.

It was cold, too. A steady north wind blew down the home-stretch and made the waiting contestants dance nimbly about on their spiked shoes and rub their bare legs. That wind had helped the sprinters, hurdlers, and jumpers very considerably, since it had blown against their backs on the straightaway and the runway, enabling them to equal the Erskine record in two cases and break it in a third. It was Stearns, ’04, the track-team captain and crack sprinter who, starting from scratch, had performed the latter feat. Until to-day the Erskine record for the 220-yards dash had been twenty-two seconds flat; this afternoon, with the wind behind him all the way, Stearns had clipped a fifth of a second from the former time, to the delight of the shivering audience, who had cheered the announcement of the result loudly, glad to be able to warm themselves with enthusiasm on any pretext.

But if the north wind had been kind to the sprinters, the middle- and long-distance men had derived no benefit from it; for while it aided them on the home-stretch, it held them back on the opposite side of the field. The spectators had already begun to stream away toward college when Myer at length succeeded in getting the last of the milers placed upon their marks. The two-mile event had been tame, with Conroy, ’04, jogging over the line a good twenty yards ahead of the second man, and there was no reason to expect anything more exciting in the mile. Rindgely and Hooker were both on scratch and surely capable of beating out any of the ambitious freshmen, who, with a leavening of other class men, were sprinkled around the turn as far as the 200 yards. To be sure, Rindgely and Hooker might fight it out, but it was more probable that they had already tossed a coin between themselves to see who was to have first prize and who second. So the audience, by this time pretty well chilled, went off in search of more comfortable places than Erskine Field; or at least most of them did; a handful joined the groups of officials along the track, and jumped and stamped about in an attempt to get the blood back into toes and fingers.

Clarke Mason was one of those electing to stay. Possibly the fact that he had had the forethought to stop in his room on his way to the field and don a comfortable white sweater may have had something to do with his decision. At least it is safe to say that the mere fact of his being managing editor of the Erskine Purple was not accountable, for the Purple had a small but assiduous corps of reporters in its employment, one of whom, looking very blue about the nose, Clarke spoke to on his way across to where Stearns, having got back into his street clothes, was talking to Kernahan, the trainer.

“Well, who’s going to win this, Billy?” asked Clarke. (The track trainer was “Billy” to only a select few, and many a student, seeking to ingratiate himself with the little Irishman, had had his head almost snapped off for too familiar use of that first name.) Kernahan looked over the contestants and nodded to the men on scratch.

“One of them,” he answered.

“Then you have no infant prodigies for this event in the freshman candidates?”

“I don’t know of any. Two or three of them may turn out fast, but I guess they can’t hurry Hooker or Rindgely much.”

“Who’s the chap you’ve got by himself over there on the turn?” asked Stearns.

“That’s – I don’t mind his name; he’s a freshman from Hillton; he wanted more handicap, but I couldn’t give it to him, not with those legs of his. He’s built for a runner, anyhow.”

“He surely is,” answered Stearns, “as far as legs are concerned. But legs aren’t everything. Hello! you haven’t given that little black-haired sophomore much of a show; thirty yards won’t help him much in the mile.”

“Track, there!” cried a voice.

The three moved back on to the turf, Kernahan, who was timer, pulling out his watch. The dozen or so milers who had been summoned from the tent had had their ranks increased by several others. Hooker and Rindgely had the scratch to themselves, but the thirty yards held three men scarcely less speedy, and from that point onward around the turn as far as the middle of the back-stretch the others were scattered in little groups of twos and threes. Only the freshman with the long legs was alone. He had been given a handicap of 120 yards, and was jogging back and forth across the track with the bottom of his drab dressing-gown flapping around his slender ankles. Ahead of him in the gathering twilight six other runners, in two groups, were fidgeting about in the cold. Across the field floated the command to get ready. He tossed his wrap aside, revealing a lithe figure of little above medium height with long legs in which the muscles played prettily as he leaned forward with outstretched arm. At the report of the pistol he sprang away with long easy strides that seemed to eat up the distance. At the beginning of the home-stretch he had caught up the nearest bunch of runners, and at the mark he was speeding close behind the foremost men and taking the pace from the leader. It had cost him something to gain the position, and to the watchers about the finish it seemed that he was already spent.

“Your long-legged freshman’s done for, I guess,” said Clarke.

“Yes, he’s too ambitious. Has a pretty stride, though, hasn’t he, Billy?” Walter Stearns followed the freshman runner with his gaze while he began the turn. Kernahan too was watching him, and with something like interest. But all he said was:

“Stride’s pretty good; feet drag a good deal, though.”

“Who’s that closing up?” asked Stearns. “Oh, it’s the sophomore chap with the black hair. He’s an idiot, that’s what he is. Look! he’s trying to pass Long-legs. There he goes! Long-legs has sense, anyhow. Sophomore’s taken the lead, and look at the pace he’s making! Long-legs is dropping back; none but a fool would try to keep up to that.”

They were at the turn now, and the gathering darkness made it difficult to determine who was who. So the watchers gave their attention to the scratch-men and one or two stragglers who were bunched together half-way down the back-stretch. Rindgely and Hooker were close together, the latter putting his toes down squarely into the former’s prints. Both were running easily and with the consciousness of plenty of power in reserve. When the turn was begun they had gained slightly on the others near them and were about 120 yards behind the first bunch. The black-haired sophomore was still setting the pace when he crossed the mark again. Behind him at short intervals sped four others, and last in the group came the freshman with the long legs. The half-hundred spectators that remained were clustered close to the track near the finish and, in spite of chattering teeth, were displaying some enthusiasm. A junior named Harris who was running third was encouraged lustily, but most of the applause was reserved for the two cracks, Rindgely and Hooker; they were well known and well liked; besides, they were pretty certain to win, and it is always satisfactory to back the victor.

“What’s this, the third lap?” Clarke asked, thumping his bare hands together. “Well, I’m going back; better come along, Walt. You’ll freeze here. If we’re going to have this sort of weather in October, I’d like to know what’s going to happen to us in December.”

“Well, I guess I’ll go along,” Stearns said. “It surely is cold, and we know how this is going to end. There go Rindgely and Hooker now; watch ’em overhaul the bunch. If you see Ames, Billy, tell him I said he was to look me up to-night, will you?”

“All right,” answered the trainer. “But you’d better see this out; there’s something in the way of a finish coming pretty quick.”

“Why, what’s up?” asked the track-team captain, turning quickly to observe the runners.

“Well, I don’t know for sure,” answered Kernahan, cautiously, “but the scratch-men aren’t going to get their mugs without a fight for them, I’m thinking.”

“Who’s in the running?” Stearns asked, eagerly. Once more the first men were coming down the home-stretch. But now the order was changed. The black-haired sophomore was not in sight, but in his place sped Hooker, an easy, confident smile on his face. On his heels was Rindgely. Then came the junior, Harris, and beside him, fighting for the pole, was a little plump senior. Behind this pair and about five yards distant was the long-legged freshman. His head was held well, but his breathing was loud and tortured. Stearns looked each man over searchingly. Then he turned to the trainer.

“Last lap! Last lap!” was the cry.

“Say, Billy, you don’t mean Harris?” shouted Stearns when he could make himself heard.

Kernahan shook his head.

“Then who?”

“Keep your eyes on Ware,” said the trainer.

“Ware? Who the dickens is Ware?” asked Stearns. But the trainer was scattering the spectators from beside the finish, and so paid no heed. The stragglers were passing now and the crowd was speeding them along with announcements that the last lap had begun and with mildly ironical injunctions to “move up head” or “cut across the field.” Then all eyes were turned to the back-stretch, where the five leaders, survivors of a field of some fifteen, were racing along, dim whitish forms in the evening twilight. Hooker was setting a hot pace now, and the gaps were lengthening. But as the last turn was reached the figures changed their positions; some one dropped back; some one else moved suddenly to the front. But it was all a blur and the identity of the runners could be only surmised.

“That’s Rindgely taking the lead, I guess,” said Stearns. “That means that Hooker’s to sprint the last fifty yards or so and get first. But I’d like to know who Ware is. Do you know?”

Clarke shook his head.

“Search me,” he answered. “Maybe it’s the long-legged chap. He’s still in the bunch, I think.”

“Yes, but he was just about done up when the last lap was finished. Did you notice? He was gasping. Where’s Billy?”

“Over there at the mark. He’s holding a watch; if you speak to him now he’ll jump down your throat. Here they come. Let’s move over here where we can see.”

“Well, whoever’s in the lead is making a mighty painful pace for the finish of the mile,” exclaimed the captain. “Seems to me he’s ’way ahead, too!”

“It isn’t Rindgely,” said Clarke, decisively. “It must be – ”

“Come on, Freshman!” cried a mighty voice at Clarke’s elbow, and a big broad-shouldered youth crashed by, sending the editor of the Purple reeling on to the cinders, from where he was pulled back by Stearns. Clarke glared around in search of the cause of his ignominious performance, and saw him standing, a whole head above the crowd, a few paces away at the edge of the track. He seemed to be quite unconscious of Clarke’s anger. Leaning out over the cinders, he was waving a big hand and bellowing in a voice that drowned all other cries:

“Come on, Freshman! Dig your spurs in! Whoo-ee!”

Clarke’s anger gave way to excitement. Down the home-stretch came the runners, sprinting for the mark. Stearns was shouting unintelligible things at his side and apparently trying to climb his back in order to see the finish. The throng was yelling for Hooker, for Rindgely, for Harris.

And then, suddenly, comparative silence fell. Twenty yards away the runners became recognizable. The crowd stared in wonderment. Well in the lead and increasing that lead with every long, perfect stride came an unknown, a youth with pale cheeks disked with crimson, a youth of medium height with lithe body and long legs that were working like parts of machinery. Back of him ran Hooker; beyond, dim figures told of a struggle between Rindgely and the junior for third place. It was the stentorian voice of the big fellow at the edge of the track that broke the momentary silence of surprise.

“Pull up, Freshman, it’s all yours!” it shouted.

Then confusion reigned. The little throng raced along the track toward the finish. Hooker’s friends urged him to win, while others applauded the unknown. And in a second it was all over, mile race and fall meeting. A white-clad form sped across the finish six yards in the lead, tossed his arms in air, swerved to the left, and pitched blindly into the throng.

“What’s the matter with Seven?” shrieked a small youth at Stearns’s elbow. The track-team captain turned.

“Who was that fellow that won?” he demanded.

“Ware,” was the jubilant reply. “Ware, ’07!”