“The Star Spangled Banner, oh, long may it waveO’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
“The Star Spangled Banner, oh, long may it waveO’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”
The flag, his flag, “Old Glory,” never stained by defeat since it was flung to the breeze, victorious in every war for a hundred years, its shining stars undimmed by time, the pride and boast of the greatest country on God’s green earth! His feverish fingers touched the sash at his waist. “We have met the enemy and they are ours.” The Star-Spangled Banner!
Now he was running like a man possessed. Gone was pain, gone were bruises, gone the deadly weariness that dragged him down. His feet had wings. His heart sang. His eyes shone. He seemed inspired by superhuman strength. Like an arrow he shot past the Frenchman who was staggering on gamely, and step by step he gained on Dorner, the gallant German, who had been dubbed by his admirers “The Flying Dutchman.”
Flying he certainly was, spurred on by the wild yells of the German crowds, mad with joy at seeing their colors in front. But the shouts died down as Bert slipped by like a shadow, relentless as fate, close on the heels of the leader, grimly fighting for every inch.
And now the Stadium loomed up, gay withflaunting flags, and packed to the doors with a countless multitude wild with excitement. The word had been flashed along that a German was leading, and the crowds were on their feet, screaming like madmen. The Emperor and royal family, all ceremony thrown aside, were standing and shouting like the rest. The American contingent, despair eating at their hearts, sat glum and silent.
The twenty-six miles had been measured to end at the very doors, and the remaining three hundred and eighty-five yards of the Marathon distance was in the Stadium itself. Dorner entered first and Pandemonium reigned. Then a second figure shot through, running like the wind, at his belt the Stars and Stripes. And now it was America’s turn to yell!
Down the stretch they came, see-sawing for the lead. Before them gleamed the tape that marked the finish. No one had ever yet broken that tape ahead of Bert in a race. He swore that no one should do it now.
Nearer and nearer. What was it the fellows had said? “For the college.” “For the team.” “For the flag.” “For America.” He nerved himself for the last desperate spurt. Once more he called on the stout heart that had never failed him yet. A series of panther-like bounds, one wild tremendous leap and he snapped the tape.Again America had matched its best against the world, and again America had conquered!
It was a jubilant crowd that made the return voyage on theNorthland, in the words of Tom, “one continuous joy ride.” Training was over, the strain relaxed, the victory won. It had been a tussle from start to finish, but they had carried off the prize and one more series of Olympic games had been placed to Uncle Sam’s credit. Thornton, Hallowell, Texanima, Brady and Casey had finished among the first ten and shared with Bert the honors of the Marathon. The Emperor himself had placed the laurel crown on Bert’s head, and, as Dick said, proved himself “a dead game sport” by the gracious words with which he veiled his disappointment. Cable messages had poured in on Bert by the score, but none so pleasing as the one from Mr. Hollis: “You ran a magnificent race, my boy. The Perry flag is yours.”
And now they were on their way home with their hard-won trophies—home to an exulting country, whose glory they had upheld and which stood impatient to greet them with rousing cheers and open arms and all the honors a grateful nation could bestow.
The praises rained on Bert had left him as natural and unspoiled as ever. To him the wholething was simple. A task had been put before him and he had done it. That was all.
“’Twas me that did it,” joked Reddy, “me and the band.”
“Sure,” laughed Dick, “though of course Bert’s wind and speed counted for something.”
“To say nothing of his grit and nerve,” chimed in Tom.
“’Twas this that did it,” added Bert, as he reverently unfolded the faded battle flag that had waved over Perry’s glorious squadron. “Running with this, I couldn’t lose.”
On other fields of struggle and achievement that flag was to be his inspiration. How fully he honored it, how nobly he fought for it, how stainless he kept it will be told in
“Bert Wilson at Panama.”
THE END
Transcriber’s Notes:Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
Transcriber’s Notes:
Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected.
Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.