They retired to their respective sides of the square, and Bert anxiously asked Drake if he felt all right. “Sure thing,” responded the latter, “give me a minute to get my wind and I’ll be as strong as ever. That fellow is a mighty husky brute, though. I’ve certainly had my hands full with him.”
On his part, the big Irishman felt surprised that he had not ended the contest before this, and so expressed himself to his second. “Begorry,” he muttered. “The young felley knows all the tricks o’ the game, and then some. I went to jam me elbow into him when we were mixin’ it up there, and he blocked me as neat as ever you see. Curse me if the young spalpheen didn’t seem to be ixpictin’ it.”
“Yah, he bane foxy one, you bet,” respondedthe Swede, “but you yust go in an’ smash him up now. He bane easy for you.”
At this point the referee announced the recommencement of the contest, and again the wrestlers fenced for a hold. Then they dashed in, grasped each other, and for a moment stood motionless as though rooted to the spot. Gradually, each began to exert his strength, ounce by ounce, seeking by sheer brute force to bend the other backward. Their muscles swelled and stood out under the skin, but at first neither seemed to gain an advantage. Then, slowly, very slowly, the big sailor bent backward—further and further—until he could stand it no longer. With a yell he collapsed and went to the floor, with Drake on top of him. In a second the athlete had the giant’s shoulders touching the floor, and the referee called a “down.”
Then the contest should have been over, but the defeated man would not have it so. With a hoarse shout of rage he sprang to his feet and rushed straight at Drake. When the latter saw him coming he set himself for the onslaught with a jerk, and a dangerous light burned in his eyes.
The Irishman dashed for him with the speed and force of a wild bull, and Drake ducked slightly. Then as the man reached him he grasped him by the wrists, and straightened up with a great heave. The sailor went flying overhis head and shot through the air like a projectile from a gun.
A cry went up from everybody there, for it seemed certain that he would be killed. Fortunately, however, his momentum was so great that it carried him clear to the wall, where he dove head first into a bunk. For a moment he lay stunned, but then staggered weakly out, shaking his head from side to side.
“Be all the saints,” he gasped, “Oi’ve met me match this night and got the lickin’ of me life. The best man won, that’s all Oi’ve got to say. Shake hands before ye go, will ye, kid?”
“Sure,” said Drake frankly, extending his hand. “You gave me a hard tussle, and deserved to win. I hope I never have to stand up against you again,” he added, with a grin, “for you’re certainly a dandy.”
Then he and his followers filed out, and returned to the training quarters. The first person they saw when they entered was Reddy, and he grinned broadly as they came in. Bert had hinted pretty broadly at the object of their visit to the forecastle, but had not told Reddy openly what was in the wind, as in his official capacity the trainer would not have felt in a position to sanction the affair. As it was, he awaited news of the outcome with considerable anxiety, and seemed much relieved when the whole contestwas recounted to him and he learned of its successful termination.
“Well, to bed with you now, you worthless spalpeens,” he said at the end of the recital. But as they were dispersing to their bunk he called, “I’m mighty glad you won, Drake.”
The next morning Drake was on deck and practising at the usual time, feeling no ill effects from his strenuous experience other than a slight stiffness, which bothered him very little. In a couple of days even this wore off, and the next day but one from the date of the exciting contest he broke the record for discus throwing by a matter of almost six inches, thus justifying the trainer’s judgment.
As for the crew, they treated Drake with marked respect, and from that day forward nothing more was heard from them except praise concerning “college athletes,” and especially “plate-throwers.”
It was evening on board theNorthland, cool, calm and altogether delightful. Just enough of twilight lingered to make visible the broad expanse of ocean, so calm that, if it were not so vast, one might almost think it an inland lake. A silver-crescent moon, growing brighter every moment as the soft light waned, cast its bright reflection into the quiet water where the dancing ripples broke and scattered it into myriad points of gleaming light. As the darkness grew, the stars came out and added their beauty to the night.
To the groups of young athletes, lying at ease in steamer chairs on the deck, the cool quiet of the perfect evening was most welcome, for it had been a strenuous day. The hours allotted to practice had been filled to their limit, and now it was luxury to lie with tired muscles relaxed and enjoy the peace and beauty of the quiet night.
For a long time no one spoke, but Tom, who could never bear to be quiet very long, nor letother people be, broke the silence by wondering what Berlin was like.
“Why,” answered Reddy who had twice visited the great German city, “it’s fine, but it sure is laid out queer, with the river running straight through it, cutting it clean in two. They’ve had to build many bridges, for the river branches off in more than one direction and you have to be crossing over the water every little while.”
“I’ve read about those bridges,” said Bert, “and of the eight immense marble statues that are to be seen on one of them. The statues represent the different stages of a soldier’s career. On another is an equestrian bronze statue of Frederick of Germany.”
“Well,” said loyal Tom, “that’s all right for Berlin, but I think we’ve left behind in little old New York, about everything that is really worth seeing.”
Every one laughed, and Axtell said, “There’s one thing in Berlin, you must admit, that not even New York can boast; the thing we are all more interested in just now than anything else in the world, the great Olympic athletic field.”
This brought them around to athletics again and the talk ran on different events and their hope of success in each until Dick rebelled. “Do let’s talk about something else once in a while,”he remonstrated, “it’s a wonder we don’t all dream about the Stadium and get up in our sleep and go through the motions. They say your dreams are influenced by what has made the strongest impression on your mind during the day. At least that’s the theory.”
“Well,” laughed Drake, “I can confirm your theory in part, anyway; for last night I had the most vivid dream of a hurling match. I suppose that was because I thought of very little else all day.”
There was quite a little discussion then as to whether dreams could be controlled by the will or were entirely involuntary.
“Well,” Bert said finally, “as opinions seem about evenly divided, I propose that we all go to bed to-night with a determination not to dream of any form of athletics, and, in the morning report our success or failure.”
In order to give their minds a different bent, they sang college songs for the next hour, then bade each other good-night, and went to put their theory to the test.
Perhaps the very determination not to dream of the athletic contest made it more certain that he would dream of just that; but, at any rate, Drake did have a most vivid dream.
He thought that the great day of the meet had arrived, and, at last, the hour to which he hadlooked forward for so many weeks. The great audience had assembled and sat in hushed expectancy, while he stood ready with muscles tense and discus poised.
So real was the dream that his body followed its movements. Slipping out of bed he moved noiselessly, still sleeping, up the stairs, and, as directly as if it were broad daylight instead of black night, on to the practice space on the training deck, where a portion of the rail had been removed to facilitate the throwing of the discus. Here, taking his place in the dream, within the circle of space allotted to him, he stood firm, poised the discus and stepped forward a couple of paces as he threw. But, alas, that circle of space was only in his dream and in reality he had passed through the opening in the rail. The two paces carried him over the edge of the vessel, through forty flying feet of space, and plunged him into the dark waters beneath.
The plunge awoke him. As he rose to the surface he instinctively struck out and kept himself afloat. Bewildered and half dazed, he asked himself, “Where am I? How in the name of everything that’s horrible, did I get here in the water?” Vain questions to which there came no answer.
He had fallen with his back to the ship, but now, as full consciousness came to him, he turned,and, to his horror, saw the lights of theNorthlanddrawing steadily away from him. Without stopping to reason, he began shouting at the top of his voice, and swimming with all his strength after the departing steamer. His one impulse was to reach it, his one thought that he must not be left alone there in mid-ocean.
For many minutes he swam madly, desperately, but soon the brief insanity passed, his self-control returned, and he realized the uselessness of the vain struggle. He ceased swimming and, alternately treading water and floating, to rest his strained muscles, tried to collect his thoughts and determine what to do.
As he floated, he forced his mind backward. One by one the events of the evening on board theNorthlandcame back to him. The quiet loveliness of the night, the talk about Berlin, about the events so soon to take place and about dreams——
“Ah, dreams,” he said aloud. Like a flash he remembered his vivid dream of the Olympic field in Berlin; remembered how in his dream he stood ready to take his part in the great contest; remembered the strained muscles, the poised discus, the forward step—ah, that was it! He felt certain that now he had the reason for his present desperate plight. He must have walked in his sleep and, in his sleep, slipped overboard.
This plausible solution of the mystery was some small satisfaction. Question after question assailed him. How long after he tumbled into his berth had this happened? Was it hours afterward? If so, it would soon be daylight and then he might be able to sight some object that would help him. Had it happened shortly after he fell asleep? Then long hours must pass before the dawn. Stout, husky fellow and strong swimmer that he was, could he keep afloat through those endless hours? He knew that an ordinarily strong man could keep himself afloat five or six hours, seldom longer.
It was eleven o’clock when he went to his berth. The sun rose at this time of the year at about half-past four, so that would make five and a half hours at the most; but the probability was that an hour or more had elapsed before the dream came. That would leave four hours or so before dawn. They would not miss him before breakfast and that would double the four hours.
He did not doubt that they would search for him. If theNorthlandhad been a passenger steamer, sailing under regular schedule, she would not have been able to waste hours, perhaps for one missing passenger. Being under special charter, her time was at her own disposal, and he knew that she would return over hercourse and send her small boats in every direction in search of him. But at least twelve or fourteen hours must elapse before any aid could reach him.
As this terrible realization came upon him, he was filled with despair. What use to continue to struggle for the few hours that his strength would hold out? It would only be a drawing out of misery with death surely at the end. Better by far to hold himself, deliberately under water and in a few brief minutes end it all. But, no, he would not. He would keep himself afloat till daylight. Perhaps the dawn would show him some floating spar or piece of wreckage to which he might cling. It was his duty to preserve his life as long as possible. If at last he must yield himself to old ocean, he could at least die with the consciousness that he had not yielded like a coward, but had fought on until the end with dauntless determination.
At that moment, as if to reward his courage and manly resolution, a faint light began to creep over land and ocean. With a thrill he realized that the dawn, which he had feared was hours distant, was at hand, and hope sprang anew. But as the light grew and the great, desolate expanse of ocean spread itself out before his eager eye, despair again seized him.
On every side nothing but that great stretchof water. Not a speck as large as his hand upon its calm, cruel surface.
But wait!—what was that black object that caught his eye as he rose to the crest of a wave? Was it only imagination? a shape born of his desperate desire? No, there it was again. It was real.
Swimming with renewed energy he steered straight for the floating object, but paused again as a new fear gripped his heart. What if it were the fin of a shark! If that was what it was, then he was just hurrying to meet a terrible death. He would rather drown than suffer such a death as that. A few moments he hesitated, but the thought that sharks were not so numerous in the Atlantic as in the Pacific reassured him, and he said aloud, “Well, it is a last chance, and I’ll take it.”
Resolutely, now, he swam on, until as he rose to the crest of a large wave, he found himself near enough to observe that what he had feared at a distance was a shark’s fin was a floating cask. He instantly recognized it as one which had been rolled near to the rail of theNorthlandfor the fellows to sit on. He must have touched it as he went overboard and it had fallen with him.
With a cry of joy he reached it, and, after a failure or two, succeeded in grasping it firmly.Now he had a much better view of the ocean. Again he cast his eager eyes across that great waste of water—and his heart nearly stopped beating. At no great distance and bearing directly toward him was a large steamer flying the French colors. Would she see him or would she pass him by? He scarcely dared hope he would be seen, he was such a speck on that boundless ocean. He could only wait with heart aching with suspense.
Nearer and still nearer came the great ship, until, after what seemed an age of waiting, she was within hailing distance. Eagerly he scanned her for sight of any living being, but he could see no one moving on her decks.
Stripping the jacket of his pajamas from his shoulders he waved it desperately, and shouted with all his strength. Ah, she is passing, she does not see him! But just as all hope seemed lost, he saw hurrying figures on board, and a ringing voice came over the water. “Have courage, we will come to you.”
A great revulsion of feeling passed over him and never afterward could he remember just what happened after that voice reached him, except that he clung, dazed and almost fainting, to the cask for what seemed hours, and then—nothingness!
When he again opened his eyes, he was lyingat length on the deck of the strange steamer, and kind faces were bending over him.
His story was soon told and he was overjoyed to learn that the steamer was fitted with wireless apparatus and that a message would be sent as soon as possible to theNorthland. Almost before he was missed, the news of his safety would reach them. With thankful heart and in ineffable content he lay, finding it hard to assure himself that death had passed him by, and life, sweeter than ever before, stretched before him.
On board theNorthlandthe breakfast hour had come, and all took their places at the table with unusual alacrity, as they were to report the success or failure of their effort to control dreams by their will-power. Soon all were assembled but Drake.
“Where’s Drake?” was the general demand.
“He must be dreaming yet,” laughed Bert. “He sure has met with failure.”
“No,” Axtell, who shared Drake’s stateroom, assured them. “He has been up this long while. He had left his berth this morning before I awoke.”
They waited a while and then, as he did not come, Axtell went to find him. In a short time he returned with the startling news that Drake did not appear to be anywhere on the ship.
“He’s putting up a joke on us,” said Tom with a half-hearted attempt at a grin.
Everyone hoped that this might be true, but it did not prevent a thorough search of the ship, it is needless to say, without result. Great was the consternation on board.
“What under the sun could have happened to him,” Dick wondered.
“No one knows,” Axtell answered anxiously. “Come on, fellows, let’s have one more look. He must be hiding somewhere.”
“But where, where,” Tom cried, at his wit’s end. “How could he have disappeared so completely?”
“That isn’t the question,” Bert cried impatiently. “It’s up to us to find out where, if we can,” and once more the search was begun.
Five minutes more of frantic search brought no reward. The fellows, now thoroughly panic-stricken, stood and looked into each other’s pale faces, trying to imagine what had happened.
“He must be somewhere on the ship,” Martin persisted, desperately. “Nothing else is possible.”
The startling news had been carried to Captain Everett and his voice could now be heard giving orders for a most thorough search of the ship. This was done but still without avail.
At this report their last hopes were dissipated and all were forced to believe that in some mysterious way Drake had accidentally fallen overboard. At this solution of the mystery every heart was filled with frantic grief, for Drake was loved by all. Then they all felt an almost irresistible impulse to fling themselves overboard and drag him somewhere, somehow, from that sea of death.
“If he has fallen overboard,” Axtell said with a choke in his voice, “he’ll have no chance at all.”
“Oh,” Tom cried, throwing himself down in a chair, “poor, poor old Drake; and we are so powerless to help him.”
“There’s one chance left,” Reddy comforted, striving to bring back a spark of hope to their despairing hearts. “He’s right in the steamer lane and one of them may pick him up.”
Eagerly they clutched at this one straw held out to them and hope was further strengthened by the fact that theNorthlandhad turned and, with all steam on, was retracing her course. A faint hope, at best, they knew, for even if his splendid strength had held out till then, how could such a small speck as he must seem on that boundless ocean, be sighted from the deck of a steamer? Then, too, theNorthlandcould not retrace her course exactly and the currents mighthave carried the poor castaway far adrift. A forlorn hope indeed!
Click! click! went the key of the wireless, and the operator straightened in his chair as a message came over the water.
“On board theNorthland,” it flashed, “Drake rescued this morning by French steamerLafayette. Will reach Havre on Thursday at eleven A. M. Will awaitNorthland. All well.”
A moment and the message was in the captain’s hands. Then such wild, uncontrollable joy broke out on board as theNorthlandhad never before witnessed. Everybody shook everybody else by the hand, all talking at once and neither knowing nor caring what they said.
When, two days later their old comrade stood among them their joy knew no bounds. They carried him around on their shoulders and nearly killed him with their hilarious demonstrations.
“It’s too good to be true,” said Axtell, with his arm around his chum’s shoulder, “to have you back again safe and sound. Say, fellows,” he said, turning to the others, while his old smile flashed out again, “to think that all that came from walking in a dream. If that’s the kind of ‘stuff that dreams are made of,’ may none of us ever dream again!”
“In a German port! Germany at last!”
To Tom coming slowly back from the land of dreams, the words spoken in Dick’s voice sounded as if they came from a long, long distance. With an impatient little shake at being disturbed, he turned over, and was drifting away, when Bert’s joyous “Right-o, Dick, Germany at last!” brought him all the way back again.
Opening his eyes, he remembered with a thrill, that theNorthlandwas to reach port, the great port of Hamburg, during the night just passed. Bert and Dick, fully dressed, were gazing excitedly from their cabin portholes. At a slight sound from Tom, they pounced on him, dragged him from his berth, and landed him before one of the portholes. “Look out there,” said Dick, “and then tell us what kind of a gink a fellow must be that can lie like a wooden man in his berth on such a glorious morning and withthatto look at.”
It certainly was a glorious morning, and “that” Tom had to acknowledge, was wellworth looking at. Just one glance he gave, and then dove for his clothes. He did not need Bert’s “Do hurry up, lazy, and let’s get on deck.” His clothes went on with not one bit more attention to details than was absolutely necessary.
“Good boy!” said Dick, as Tom gave the last impatient brush to an exasperating lock on the top of his head that persisted in standing upright. “We’ve just an hour before breakfast, and we must take fifteen minutes of that to get everything packed up, for you know we are to go ashore immediately after breakfast.”
“Hang the packing,” said impatient Tom, “who wants to stay in this stuffy cabin and pack?”
“Well,” Bert sensibly suggested, “let’s get at it now and get it off our hands.”
“Wisdom hath spoken,” laughed Dick, and for the next few minutes their cabins were filled with the sound of scurrying feet, articles slapped hastily into trunk and bag, and an impatient expression or two at a bag that would not shut, or a key that would not turn.
Bert and Tom were ready first, and “There,” said Dick, as he thrust his keys into his pocket. “O. K. fellows, come on,” and three eager sightseers flew from their cabin. They never forgot that next hour on deck.
Before them lay the wonderful river, its waterssparkling and gleaming in the morning sunlight. And the shipping! Steamships like their own, freight steamers, barges, tugs, craft of all sorts. The harbor, the largest on the continent, and ranking next to London, Liverpool and Glasgow in commercial importance, teemed with life. Up and down the river passed vessels of every description, some of them of a build entirely new to our three Americans. Anchor chains rattled as some steamer pushed into position. The hoarse cries of the sailors or the musical “Yo, heave ho,” or its German equivalent, rang out as they ran up and down ladders at the ship’s side, or bent to the task of hoisting some heavy piece of freight from steamer deck to barge. Quick commands and the ready response, “Ay, ay, sir,” sounded on every side.
At their docks, freight steamers were being unloaded, or were discharging their cargoes into transportation barges fastened alongside. Busy, noisy, important little tugs blew their shrill whistles as they steamed along with some steamer or heavily laden barge in tow. Little any one in Hamburg Harbor that calm, bright, beautiful morning, dreamed that when the sun was but a little higher in the heavens, one of these same little tugs, under the command of her brave captain, would perform a deed of heroic daring.
For many minutes, not a word was spoken bythe three friends, so completely were they absorbed in the wonderful scene. Then, as he drew a long breath, “Isn’t it great?” said Tom, and the spell was broken. “Makes you realize there is great work going on in the world,” thoughtfully observed Dick. “It’s all wonderfully interesting,” agreed Bert, “but what really interests me most is not what is going on on water, but what will be going on on land within a few days.”
At his words they wheeled with one accord and fixed their eyes on the land. Careless now of all the harbor sights and sounds, they gave scant heed to the great commercial city with its miles of river harbor. The one great thought that dominated every other was that very soon now their feet would be set on German soil, and then away to Berlin to match American speed and skill against the athletes of the world. For this they had traveled thousands of miles across the sea, and what would be the outcome? victory or defeat? When, the trial ended, they should stand on the deck of this steamer, homeward bound, would it be with hearts swelling with proud triumph, or sinking at the prospect of going home beaten? “Wouldn’t you like to know now fellows,” breathed Tom, “what’s to be the answer?”
“Why,” said Bert quietly, “don’t youknow?It’s going to be victory, of course. Anything else is not to be considered for one moment.”
“Right-o,” said Dick, brightening, “and here and now we cross out the word defeat from our vocabulary and pledge ourselves to win.”
With a hand clasp all around to seal the pledge, they took the cabin stairs with one bound as the breakfast gong sounded.
“Well,” said Dick, as he seated himself at the table, “our last meal on board. Let’s make the most of it.”
“Yes,” Tom assented with comic seriousness, his face drawn into doleful lines, “for we don’t know where we will get the next meal.”
“What do you carewherewe get it, as long as we get it?” summed up Dick, as the laugh subsided.
Breakfast over, they stood with the others on deck, waiting only for the checking of the baggage to go ashore. As they waited, the busy harbor again claimed their attention. Six or seven hundred feet away, a large freight steamer was rapidly unloading into a barge that waited at her side. “What do you suppose her freight is?” Bert asked of a gentleman beside him who had been especially chummy with the young Americans. “Oh, it may be anything,” laughed his friend. “From silk and linen to dynamite.”
“Wow,” said Tom, with a comic shiver, “ifit’s dynamite, I’m glad we are no nearer to her.”
The gentleman smiled, but replied gravely, “It’s a very good thing to keep as much distance between you and any form of dynamite as possible.”
“Indeed, you are right,” said another passenger, a jolly fellow, who had kept them very merry during the voyage with his witty sayings, and his exhaustless fund of funny stories. “Everyone might not be willing to take the chance that Casey did for the sake of getting even. His friend O’Brien had a way of giving him a very vigorous slap on the chest by way of greeting. The blow always came over the breast pocket where Casey carried his cigars, and a number of them had been broken. Casey did not fancy this at all, and a scheme came into his head to get even with O’Brien. He procured a small stick of dynamite and placed it in the pocket with his cigars. Filled with satisfaction, he was walking down the street, chuckling to himself, when he met his friend Dennis. ‘Phat’s the joke?’ asked Dennis. ‘Sure,’ said Casey, shaking with laughter, and showing Dennis the stick of dynamite in his pocket, ‘Oi’m thinkin’ of the surprise of O’Brien phwen he hits me.’”
A hearty laugh greeted this story, and it had scarcely subsided when Bert, whose trained sight very little escaped, drew attention to a vast volumeof smoke that was pouring from the stern of theFalcon, the steamer that carried the load of dynamite. At the same instant a great confusion broke out on board of her. Sailors came running to the deck, and rushed affrightedly to the rail. The excitement spread to other vessels near at hand.
A tug, one of the largest, ran alongside theFalcon, whose crew, pursued by fear, began jumping or tumbling over her side on to the tug’s deck. Whistles sounded, and vessels near at hand began drawing away from her with all possible speed.
“She must be on fire,” someone said.
“She is,” answered Captain Everett, coming up, his face very pale, “and part of her freight, I’m told, is several hundred cases of dynamite. Nothing can save her now. It is only a matter of minutes, or maybe seconds.”
At the startling news every face blanched, and every eye was fixed on the fated steamer. It was a scene to stamp itself on the memory of all. The sailors, tumbling pell-mell upon the tug, the crews of the different vessels hurriedly executing sharply uttered commands, the boats scurrying away like a flock of frightened birds.
Sure now that all had been taken from the fated ship, the rescuing tug was steaming rapidly away, when two men suddenly appeared on theFalcon, and, running to the rail, waved their hands in frantic appeal for rescue.
For a moment or two the tug did not notice the men, but soon the puffing of exhaust pipes grew less noisy and she slowed down. She had seen the two poor unfortunates, and now the same question was in the mind of all. What would the captain of the tug do? What ought he to do? There was no time to land those on board and return. Every second lost meant a lessened chance of going back and making a final safe getaway. If he left the two men to their fate it would look like deliberate cruelty; but, on the other hand, if he went back, he must carry every soul on board into imminent danger of a terrible death. Dared he do it?
A moment she hung undecided, her screw scarcely turning the water at her stern, while all waited with beating hearts. Then she wheeled, and with all steam on hurried back. She moved with great speed, but to the onlookers it seemed as if she crept through the water. Seconds seemed like long minutes, until at last the sailors were safe on deck. Her bow once more pointed to open water, she steamed away toward safety. Not yet did they who had followed her every movement dare to cheer her captain’s brave action. She was not yet safe.
One hundred, two, three, four, five, six hundredfeet of water at last stretched between her and the great danger that she had so narrowly escaped.
Now a cheer arose, but scarcely was it heard before it was drowned in a tremendous roar as theFalconsprang bodily from the water. Then a great column of fire a hundred feet high leapt up from the doomed ship. Over this hung a cloud of black smoke which completely hid the vessel from view, while the sea rocked as if with a submarine earthquake. The air was filled with steam and smoke, charred wood, fragments of steel and iron, and flying cases of dynamite. When the smoke cleared, which was not for many minutes, there was not a vestige of the ill-fatedFalcon, nor of the barge at her side.
Many of the cases of dynamite exploded in the air, seeming to echo the first great, deafening explosion. A number of them narrowly escaped falling on the deck of the gallant little tug that twice had braved destruction. One of them did indeed graze her stern, ripping up some of the planks from her deck, carrying away part of her rail, and throwing down and stunning many of those who crowded her forward deck. It was a narrow escape. Had the explosion occurred a very few minutes sooner many of the cases of dynamite would have fallen on the tug’s deck in the midst of her crew and those who had fled to her for safety. No one dared think of the fearfulscene of carnage that would have followed.
Many other ships in the harbor barely escaped destruction. A collier was struck by the flying pieces of steel and iron, some of them weighing fifty pounds or more, and her steel plates, nearly an inch in thickness, were pierced and torn in many places. By the very force of the concussion her great smokestacks were crushed flat.
Nor did those on board theNorthlandentirely escape the terrific force of the explosion. Their ship seemed to lift under them, and many were thrown to the deck, but none received any serious hurt.
It is needless to say that thought of their own affairs had been banished from the minds of all on board during this scene of awful confusion and mortal peril; but it had passed.
As once more the great river settled into calm, the work of debarkation went on. A little while and our young travelers, still thrilling with the excitement of the scene through which they had just passed, found themselves at last on German soil.
The afternoon was very delightfully spent in “doing” Hamburg town, and the next morning, after a quiet night at the hotel, the train bore them onward toward Berlin, and the fulfillment, as they believed, of all their hopes.
Knowing that the morning papers would havea full story of the harbor disaster, everyone straightway possessed himself of a copy, and settled himself eagerly to read the account. In consequence, it was a very quiet carful of people as they scanned the columns with their glaring headlines. Our three college boys, like all the others, had a fair knowledge of the German language, but it was not so easily nor so quickly read as English, and so eager were they to learn the full extent of the disaster that they were very glad to accept the offer of one of their party, who was a native German, to translate for them.
Soon startled exclamations broke forth, as they learned that for a distance of twelve miles windows were broken and chimneys demolished, tall steel-framed office buildings shaken to their foundations, and thousands of people had been in panic from fear of earthquake. In amazement they heard that great pieces of steel weighing fifty pounds had been found three or four miles from the harbor, and that the shock was felt a hundred miles away.
“Well,” said Drake, as he folded up his paper at last, “the wonder is that there was a single ship left in the harbor, and that we did not all go to the bottom of the river. I don’t see what saved us, anyway.”
It was not to be wondered at that they could talk of nothing else during the greater part ofthe journey, but as the train neared their goal, the much-talked-and-thought-of city of Berlin, there was a sudden reaction from seriousness to gaiety. It is not in boy nature to look long on the dark side of things, and it was a hilarious party of young Americans that descended from the train, and wended their way along the streets of the German city, that till now had only existed for them between the covers of a geography.
German talk, German faces, German costumes were all about them, and ears and eyes were kept very busy with the new sights and sounds.
“Now, Tom,” chaffed Bert, as at the hotel they prepared for dinner, “trot out your German.”
“Ach ja,” responded Tom, obligingly. “Was wilst du? Du bist ferricht, mein kind? Ich habe kein geld? Oder wilst du die Lorelei haben? Ach, wohl, hier es ist,
“‘Ich weiss nicht was soll ist bedeuten,Das ich so traurig bin,Ein mahrchen aus alten zeiten,Das kommt mir nicht aus dem sinn.Die luft ist——’”
“‘Ich weiss nicht was soll ist bedeuten,Das ich so traurig bin,Ein mahrchen aus alten zeiten,Das kommt mir nicht aus dem sinn.Die luft ist——’”
At this point in the quaint German legend Tom’s breath left him as he felt himself lifted bodily from his feet and laid upon the bed, withhis mouth bound about with a towel snatched from the washstand. Not until he had, by repeated inclinations of his bandaged head, promised “to make no attempt to finish the Lorelei,” and to give them his so-called German in “as small doses and at as large intervals as possible,” was he released.
“Ah, well,” said he, when he was free, “such is the gratitude and appreciation of so-called friends.”
Peace restored, the three friends went down to dinner, softly humming, each in a different key,
“Ach, du liebe Augustine.”
“Ach, du liebe Augustine.”
The boys were all up early on the day when the Olympic games were to begin. They were thrilling with excitement like that of young soldiers on the verge of their first battle. Here at last was the goal of their ambition, the day they had looked forward to through weary months of effort, the end of their journey from one continent to another, the final port after the long voyage overseas. Here they were to pit themselves against the best the world could offer. From here the cable was to flash to waiting friends at home the news of victory or defeat. And they solemnly vowed it should not be defeat.
Berlin was awake, too. The great city, rising like a giant refreshed after sleep, was full of stir and movement. The very air seemed electrified with a sense of something great impending. From early dawn the streets had resounded with bugle calls, as the troops that were to take part in the great review preceding the games took up their position. Staff officers in their gorgeous uniforms were dashing to and fro, and the pavementsechoed back the measured tread of the infantry and the clatter of the cavalry. Flags and bunting fluttered everywhere. Excursion trains brought in enormous crowds from other cities to swell the swarming population of the capital. A general holiday had been proclaimed and all Berlin was out of doors.
And these vast crowds were swayed not only by enthusiasm but by hope. At last the German eagle was to have a chance to scream. The Fatherland had not fared any too well at previous Olympic meets. The first prizes that had fallen to German athletes had been few and far between. It was not that they lacked pluck and brawn. This they had in plenty. But they had not made a specialty of field and track events and they had been forced to stand aside and see England and America make almost a clean sweep at every meet.
But in the four years that had elapsed since the last games they had thrown themselves into the strife with all the thoroughness and earnestness that were their national characteristics. Not if they could help it would they fail of winning in their own capital with the whole world looking on. Sport had become a national craze, and training, like everything else with the Germans, had been reduced to a science.
The Emperor himself had rushed into themovement with his well-known dash and vigor. He was determined that “where Germany sat should be the head of the table.” He had issued orders to his army officers that whenever they espied in the ranks a promising candidate he should be given every opportunity for development; and in more than one case he had relieved him altogether from military service in order that he might devote himself to his specialty. He had hung up costly trophies to be battled for and had attended many of the meets in person. His own son, Prince Friedrich Wilhelm, was a winner in the elimination sprints, and would be one of the Olympic contenders. Everywhere there was a spirit of deadly earnestness such as had brought Germany to the fore in so many fields of learning and music and commerce. There were rumors flying about of marvelous records made in practice, of wonderful “phenoms” to be uncovered when the time came. And Reddy voiced what was coming to be a general opinion in the American quarters, that “It’s them blamed Dutchmen we’ve got to beat.”
Not that this scared Uncle Sam’s boys in the slightest degree. They sniffed the battle from afar like young war horses, and the prospect of stiff competition only added zest to the coming strife. The fiercer the struggle the more glorious the victory. As Bert put it: “They didn’t wanta procession; they wanted a race.” All foes looked alike to them and they faced the issue with a buoyant confidence that was not mere bravado, but based on indomitable courage and self-reliance. If they were beaten—and it stood to reason that in some events they would be—their opponents in every case would have to earn the victory and they would surely know they had been in a fight.
The fight idea was emphasized by the great military review that passed before the Emperor. The crack regiments of the finest army in Europe, marching with the precision of clockwork, made up a parade miles in length. Every arm of the service was represented—the grim Krupp artillery rumbling along like thunder, the solid ranks of the infantry moving as one man, the splendid Uhlans and Hussars, superbly mounted. It was a shrewd move on the part of the Emperor—whom Dick described as “the best advertising man in Europe”—thus to impress visitors from all parts of the world with the martial pomp and power of the German Empire. While these were to be games of friendly rivalry, and admitting that “Peace hath its victories no less renowned than War,” he figured that it would do no harm to give a quiet hint that, whether in peace or war, the Fatherland was prepared to meet all comers. And the shower of cheers that greeted the troopsalong the line of march attested the pride felt in their army by the entire nation.
After the review came luncheon, at which the Kaiser entertained the Committeemen of the various nations, and shortly afterward the tide set in toward the Stadium, where the opening exercises were to be held that afternoon.
A murmur of admiration rose from the spectators as they poured in the gates of the magnificent structure. The builders had fairly outdone themselves. It was a crystallized dream. The most brilliant architects in Germany had been summoned to its construction and given a free hand in the matter of expense. As a result, they had erected the finest building in the world designed for athletic sports. Arranged in the form of an ellipse, it extended like a giant horseshoe over fifty acres. The arena itself was open to the sky, but the seats, rising tier on tier in endless rows, were under cover. The massive walls, made of granite, were adorned with statues of German heroes, and high over all towered a colossal figure of Germania. The entrances were flanked by mighty towers and beneath the seats was an enormous corridor with dressing rooms, shower baths and every appliance for the comfort of the athletes. In the center of the vast arena was the field for the throwing and jumping competitions, and circling this was the running trackfor the racers. Nothing had been overlooked, nothing neglected. The builders had been able to profit by the mistakes or omissions of other nations where meets had been held and they had reared a structure that was the “last word” for beauty and utility.
Through every entrance in one unending stream poured the crowds of spectators. Thousands upon thousands, they packed the tiers of seats until they overflowed. And still they kept coming.
The Emperor sat in the royal box, surrounded by his family and a glittering staff. At a given signal the bands started up the “Wacht am Rhein.” The vast multitude rose to their feet and stood with uncovered heads. Then the choral societies took up the famous hymn, “A Strong Fortress Is Our God.” The noble music swept over the field and stirred all German hearts with deep emotion.
Then from the pavilions, each delegation carrying its national flag, came the athletes, four thousand in number. They marched in serried ranks down the field and lined up in front of the royal enclosure. Bronzed, supple, straight as arrows, they made a magnificent picture. The Crown Prince introduced them in a body to his father in a few well-chosen words, and the Emperor made one of his characteristic speeches inreply. At its conclusion he waved his hand, the ranks disbanded, a hurricane of cheers rent the air, and the greatest of Olympic meets was on.
For ten days the struggle went on with varying fortunes. Every event was fiercely contested. Nothing could be counted on certainly in advance. Many “good things” went wrong, while others who had only been supposed to have an outside chance carried off the prize. With every day that passed, it became more evident, as the pendulum swung from side to side, that the result would be in doubt almost to the last. They fought like wildcats, ran like deer and held on like bulldogs. It was a “fight for keeps” from start to finish.
In the rifle and revolver competitions, the Americans swept the boards. At every range and every target they were invincible. Crack shots from all over Europe tried in vain to rival their scores. They were from the land of Davy Crockett and there was nothing left for their opponents but to follow the example of the historic coon and “come down.”
In the hundred yard dash, the Americans ran one, two, three. There was a separate lane for each runner so that no one could interfere with another. The timing was by electricity and did away with any possibility of mistake. The crack of the pistol started the watch and the breakingof the tape at the finish stopped it. The system did away with all disputes and helped immensely in promoting the friendly feeling that prevailed throughout the games.
Five points were given to the winner in each event, three to the second and one to the third. So that no matter which nation won the first, another might win the second or third or both, and thus keep within striking distance in the general score.
From the first day, the American score began to climb. But the Germans and Swedes and English were climbing, too, and it became clear that it was not to be, as in previous meets, a walkover for the Stars and Stripes.
In the field and track events—what we understand in this country by athletics—the Americans were vastly superior. The broad jump was theirs, the pole vaulting, the hurdles, the four hundred metres and fifteen hundred metres runs. Drake won the discus throw and Snyder hurled the hammer further than it had ever gone before.
But there were other features in which we had but few representatives, and in some none at all. The archery shooting went to England. The javelin casting with both hands was won by a gigantic Swede. The horsemanship contest was carried off by officers of the German cavalry. France took the lead in fencing and Canada captured the long-distance walk. The horizontalbar work of the Germans was far and away the best, and her beef and brawn gathered in the tug of war. In the bicycle race Italy came in first, and we had to be content with second and third.
All these events swelled the foreigner’s score, and although America captured the Pentathlon and Decathlon for all round excellence, her lead on the tenth day was threatened by Germany and Sweden who were close behind.
“’Twill be no two to one this time,” Reddy grumbled. “’Tis glad I’ll be if we come out ahead by the skin of our teeth. We can’t seem to shake them fellers off. They hang on like leeches. I’m thinking, Wilson, ’twill be up to you to grab that Marathon, if we’re to go back to God’s country with colors flying and our heads held high.”
And Reddy was so true a prophet that when at last the momentous day came for the Marathon race, the German boar was gnashing his tusks at the American eagle. Only two points behind, he came plunging along, and victory for either depended on who won the Marathon.
The day before the race a package was delivered to Bert at his hotel. It bore the American postmark and he looked at it curiously. Within was a letter from Mr. Hollis and a little roll of bunting. Bert unrolled it. It was a torn and tattered American flag bearing the marks of flames and bullets. Across it had been stampedin golden letters: “We have met the enemy and they are ours.”
“I’ve had it a long time in my historical collection,” Mr. Hollis had written. “It’s the identical flag that Perry flew in the battle of Lake Erie. I’ve had his immortal words stamped on it. It saw one glorious victory won for America. I want it to see another. I loan this to you to tie in a sash about your waist when you run the Marathon. I’m banking on you, Bert, my boy. Go in and win.”
Bert touched it lovingly, reverently. A lump rose in his throat. “I’ll wear it,” he said, “and I’ll win with it.”
It was a perfect day for the great race that was to settle the long-distance championship of the world. The sun shone brightly, but not too 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 point twenty-six miles away from the Stadium. The most detailed preparations had been made for the event. The distance had been carefully measured off by expert surveyors, and policed from end to end in order to keep a clear path for the racers and see that the rules were strictly observed. At every hundred feet stood a group of soldiers. All traffic had been suspended by an imperial order. An ambulance, with Red Cross doctors and nurses, was to follow and pick up any who might fall out or be overcome with exhaustion.
The contestants had been taken to the starting point in automobiles the night before, so that they might get a good night’s sleep and be in prime condition. Now the temporary training quarters were humming with bustle and excitement. Thelast bath and rubdown and kneading of the muscles were over and the final words of caution and encouragement spoken, as the fellows lined up in readiness for the starter’s pistol.
Bert, in superb condition, his skin glowing, his muscles rippling, shook hands 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, and the look came into his eyes that they had learned to know.
A moment’s breathless silence, while over a hundred trained athletes watched the starter, as he looked along the waiting line and slowly raised his pistol. A shot, a tremendous roar from the crowd, a rush of feet like a stampede of steers and they were off. A moment later Berlin knew that they had started. Five minutes later, all Europe knew it. Ten minutes later, America knew it. Two continents were watching the race, and beneath the gaze of these invisible witnesses the runners bounded on. All types were there; brawny Germans, giant Swedes, stolid Englishmen, rangy Canadians, dapper Frenchmen, swarthy Italians, lithe Americans—each one bound to win or go down fighting.
At first the going was rather hard on account of the great number of contenders. They got in each other’s way. They were like a herd of fleeing 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 ahead was like a red rag to a bull. But he restrained himself. If he were to win that race, he must use his brains as well as his legs. What use to waste his strength by trying to thread his way through those flying feet? Let them make the pace. By and by they would string out and the path would clear. In the meantime he would keep within striking distance.
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 was precious, they subsided.
The course led uphill and down, over country roads and through villages whose quaint beauty would have appealed to Bert under other circumstances. But to-day he had no eye for scenery,no thought of anything but the road that stretched before him like a ribbon, and the Stadium, so many miles away.
Five miles, ten, and the pace began to tell. Some had dropped out altogether and others were staggering. The sheep were being separated from the goats. The real runners were ranging up in front, watching each other like hawks, intent on seizing any advantage. Most of them by this time had found their second wind and settled into their stride. Some were running on a schedule and paid no attention to their competitors, serenely confident that in the long run their plan would carry them through.
But Bert had no use for schedules. To him they were like the schemes to break the bank at Monte Carlo, infallible on paper, but falling down sadly 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 on the men in front and sped along with that easy swinging lope that seemed so easy to beat until one tried to do it.
Now fifteen miles had been covered and Bert let out a link. It would not do to wait too long before challenging the leaders. Dorner, the German, and Boudin, the Frenchman, were already far enough ahead to make him feel a trifle uneasy. Hallowell too and the Indian were a quarterof a mile in front and showed no signs of wavering. Now was the time to wear them down. Almost insensibly he lengthened his stride and with every leap decreased the distance. The crowd that lined the road, quick to detect the spurt, hailed him with cheers as he sped past, and the men in front, sensing danger, themselves put on extra speed and battled to retain the lead.
And now, Nature took a hand. A thunder storm that had been brewing for a half hour past, broke suddenly at the eighteenth mile, and the rain came down in torrents. It beat against their faces and drenched them to the skin. It cooled and refreshed their heated bodies, but it made the footing slippery and uncertain. It taxed, too, their strength and vitality, 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 appealed to something primitive and elemental in his nature. And as he ran on in the gathering darkness, the vivid lightning playing in blinding flashes about his lithe figure and tossing hair, he seemed like a faun or a young god in the morning of the world, rather than a product of the twentieth century.
But he was quickly enough brought back toreality. He had overhauled Hallowell and the Indian, and set sail for the French and German runners, when, just as he dashed round the foot of a hill, he slipped on the wet going and swerved against a rock at the edge of the road. A keen pain shot through his foot, and he saw to his dismay that his right shoe had been slit from end to end by the sharp edge of the rock. The injury to the foot was only a scratch, but, when he tried to run, the shoe flapped 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 to Berlin. The trainer dropped Tom and Dick at the Stadium and then whirled back to the hotel. Here the American band was quartered and down this street the runners were to pass. Reddy sought out the leader. A short conference and the band gathered in full force on the balcony overlooking the street.
Reddy glanced at his watch. They must be coming now. The leader poised his baton expectantly.
“Wait,” said Reddy confidently, “till the first one gets abreast of the hotel. Then let her go for all you’re worth.”
Minutes passed that seemed like hours. Then there was a stir among the crowds, a craning of necks, a murmur growing into a roar, and theleading runner came in sight. Reddy took one look and turned pale. The leader 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 second glance. He knew that giant stride, those plunging leaps. On he came like a 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 liquid fire and his heart almost leaped from his body. His strength had been oozing away, his breath was coming in sobs. His shoes had been torn off and cast aside, his bruised feet tortured him at every stride, and every ounce of power had been cruelly taxed in the effort to close up the gap caused by the accident. Now he was running on his nerve. And just at this moment, like an electric shock to his ebbing strength, came the thrilling strains that might have stirred the dead: