An air of gloom hung over the breakfast-room. Search as one might, up and down the long tables, it would have been hard to find one smiling countenance. Most of the boys were eating absent-mindedly, as if they had small relish for their food; their foreheads were wrinkled and knotted, as if their thoughts were far away. To any one at all acquainted with school affairs, the trouble was not far to seek. The first day of the mid tear examinations was at hand.
Of all these troubled faces, perhaps Dave Ellis' was the most moody and depressed. English Thirteen--how he dreaded it! He had sat up almost all night, in defiance of the rules, stealthily flashing an electric bull's-eye on his notes, and now, with aching head and jaded nerves, he was paying the penalty. His brain was in confusion. Names of books and authors sang themselves over and over in his mind. Now an absurd, annoying jingle, "Fielding, Smollett,Richardson; Fielding Smollett,Richardson;" and then, no sooner had he managed to stop the monotonous refrain than off it went again, "Dickens, Trollope,Thackeray; Dickens, Trollope,Thackeray." He groaned, turned desperately to his cup of coffee, gulped down half of it at once, scalded himself, and then--it was all of no avail--the tune began once more. Suddenly, and without warning, he thought of another name, and to his horror, everything connected with it had gone wholly from his mind. He glanced despairingly across the table at Allen. "Harry," he cried, "for goodness' sake, what school did Jane Austen belong to? And what did she write?"
Allen gazed gravely back at him. "Jane Austen?" he repeated. "Why, she was the head of the Romantic school. She wroteThe Maniac's Deed, andTracked to his Doom, andThe Bandit's Revenge. She's been called the founder of the Modern Romance--Old Sleuth, you know, and Nick Carter--"
Ellis had sat listening, his mouth a little open, his eyes troubled, his whole expression a study in amazed bewilderment. Two or three of the boys snickered, and at once he came to his senses. "Oh, shut up, Harry," he cried, "that's an awfully dirty trick--to jolly a fellow that way. If you felt as rotten as I do--"
Allen relented. "Well, excuse me, Dave," he said, "but you know what she wrote, just as well as I do, if you'd only stop to think. She was the great realist.Pride and Prejudice,Sense and Sensibility, all that list."
Ellis' face cleared. "Oh, yes," he said hastily, "of course.Mansfield Park,Emma, and some kind of an Abbey; I've got 'em all in my notes. But what if it had come on the exam? I never would have remembered it in the world. Confound English Thirteen. I'm going to flunk; I know I am."
With a sigh he returned to his half-finished breakfast. Then, looking around him, "Pass the salt, Randall," he said, none too pleasantly.
On Dick, himself in none too amiable a frame of mind, the tone jarred. He paused, his hand on the salt-cellar. "Did I hear you say 'please?'" he questioned.
Ellis' face flushed. "Oh, don't be a fool," he cried, "if you had the things to bother you that I have, you wouldn't be so particular. Please--please--please--as many times as you like, only pass it, anyway."
Dick complied. "Well, you needn't make such a row about your hard times," he retorted. "I can't see that you're any worse off than any one else. These confounded mid-years. They put us all in the same boat."
Ellis scowled. "Oh, you don't know everything," he grumbled. "I guess if you--"
He pulled himself up sharply, and went on with his breakfast. Five minutes later, as they filed out of the hall, Allen drew Dick to one side. "Say," he whispered, "what's our friend Dave got on his mind? He's awfully down in the mouth lately. Has he ever tried to borrow any money of you?"
Dick looked at his friend in some surprise. "Why, yes," he answered rather unwillingly, "he has. I told him I was sorry, but I didn't have any I could spare. Why, has he tried you, too?"
Allen nodded. "Sure," he answered briefly, "and Steve Lindsay, and Ned Brewster. I guess that's where the trouble is. He must be in some sort of a money scrape, and that and the mid-years together have got him feeling pretty blue. Anyway, it looks like that to me."
Half an hour later the unfortunates who took English Thirteen assembled in the upper hall. It was Dick's first examination of importance since he had been in the school, and he felt extremely nervous. His mouth was dry; his heart was pounding against his ribs. To divert his mind he looked around the room to see where his friends were seated. Brewster and Putnam were far away, across the room. Lindsay was three seats to his right. Dave Ellis was in the next seat, on his left, and Allen was stationed directly behind Ellis.
The nine o'clock bell rang, and Mr. Fenton mounted the platform. "Now, boys," he said cheerfully, "just a word, before we begin. This paper, for the period which it covers, is fully as hard as the average of the college entrance examinations. Yet, as a test, it is a perfectly fair one, in every way; an honest attempt to find out how much you know of the course. There are no catch questions, or anything of that sort. So go to work in good earnest. Read the paper through from beginning to end before you touch pencil to paper; don't lose your heads; take your time in thinking out your answers. And if there are questions which youcan'tanswer, they will at least show you where your weak points are, before the final examinations next spring."
A minute later, the last paper had been distributed. Dick read the questions through, slowly and deliberately, as the master had suggested, and then drew a long breath of relief. It was a "fair" paper, as Mr. Fenton had said; none too easy, but to a boy who had taken an interest in the course, and had kept up with references and outside reading, one almost certain to be passed, and to be attacked with real interest and enthusiasm. Allen and he had prepared for the examination together, and Dick saw more than one question where his classmate's devotion to his "old poets," as Jim Putnam called them, was now to serve him in good stead. For the better part of an hour, he wrote steadily; and then, with the easier questions out of the way, used greater deliberation in answering those which remained.
Once or twice, as Dick glanced up from his work, he noticed, half abstractedly, that Ellis, on his left, was sitting always in the same position, gazing straight before him at his paper, without writing a word. And then, a little later, as he was about to begin on the question next the last, a faint cough from his neighbor, three or four times repeated, attracted his attention. He looked up from his book, and the next instant a little ball of paper came spinning along the bench, so well aimed that it stopped just at the left of his examination book, lying almost within his grasp. Dick hesitated for a moment, leaned forward a trifle, unfolded the pellet, and read. At the top, three times underlined, were the words, "Help, please," and then, underneath, "Who wroteBarry Lyndon?When was Fielding born? Did Trollope writeThe Moonstone?" Below each question Ellis had left a little space for the answer.
Dick felt himself flush, almost as if he himself had been detected in something wrong. With a quick movement, he thrust the telltale slip into his pocket; then waiting until he caught Ellis' eye, he frowned slightly, shook his head in decided negative, and bent again to his task.
He finished the paper some twenty minutes before the time had expired, re-read his answers with care, and made up his mind that no matter what his mark would be, he had at least done as well as he could. He sat back in his chair, and looked around him. Most of the boys were still hard at work. And then, as his glance fell upon his neighbor, he gave an involuntary start of surprise. Ellis was writing busily, as if his very life depended on it, yet even as Dick looked, he saw him pause, and tug gently at his left sleeve with the fingers of his right hand. Gradually, he pulled a long slip of paper into view, studied it carefully for a moment, then relaxed his hold, and the paper, evidently fastened to an elastic of some sort, slid smoothly back again out of sight. Dick looked quickly away, a feeling of disgust overcoming him. He had heard of such things, but this was the first time he had seen actual cheating taking place before his very eyes. Ten minutes later the bell clanged, papers and books were gathered up, and the test was over.
The mid-years lasted for a week; at the end of that time the results were made known. Dick did fully as well as he had expected. Out of a total of seven subjects, he had one A, three B's, two C's, and one D. Harry Allen topped the list with five A's and two B's; Brewster did a trifle better than Dick; Putnam and Lindsay not quite so well. But the surprise of the whole affair was Ellis' good showing. It was nothing brilliant, compared with the records of the really fine scholars in the class, but he did far better than any one had supposed he would do, and in those subjects where memory played an important part, his marks were fully equal to the average. Thus all doubts of his being eligible for the spring games were removed, and Brewster, as captain of the track team, heaved a sigh of relief that this anxiety was off his mind.
Dick found himself unable to share in Brewster's pleasure. The thought of that strip of paper, and those cautious fingers pulling it gently downward, rankled in his mind. He wondered what a fellow ought to do in such a case. He ought not to tell tales, of course; that wasn't right; and yet--it was such a downright, dirty trick on Ellis' part--such a sailing under false colors--
And then, one morning, he found his perplexities increased. In the excitement of the mid-years, he had forgotten another matter of importance, and now, on the bulletin in the hall, appeared the notice that in a fortnight the election for class president would be held. Only two names were put in nomination--those of Dave Ellis and of Harry Allen--and suddenly Dick felt his doubts increase. Ought he to keep silence, after all? It was a mean thing to tell on a fellow--he had always known that--but on the other hand, where could you draw the line. If he saw a man commit a murder, he would certainly tell the authorities. There was a duty in both directions, it seemed. And so he thought and thought, until finally, on one rainy afternoon, he gathered his four most intimate friends--Allen, Putnam, Brewster and Lindsay--together in his room, and proceeded to unburden his mind.
"Look here, you chaps," he began, "I want your advice. This is my first year in the school, and the last thing I want to do is to butt in, or to make a nuisance of myself. But I'm in a mix-up about this business of class president, and I want to put the thing up to you fellows, and see what you think of it. Of course, I'm with Harry, as you all know, just as the rest of you are, but we're not the school--I'm afraid, this time, we're not even a majority of the school--and I suppose the chances are all in favor of Dave's getting it."
Allen nodded. "Sure thing," he replied, "I think I know the sentiment pretty well. There are forty-two fellows in the class, who are entitled to vote, and I should say that just about twenty-five were for Dave, and seventeen were for me. Of course you never can tell, for sure, until the last vote is counted, but I guess that's a pretty fair estimate. What do you fellows say?" and he turned to Putnam, Lindsay and Brewster.
"That's about it, I think," Putnam answered, and the others nodded assent.
"Well, then," Dick continued, "here's the question. In the first place, Dave Ellis isn't a fit fellow to be president of the class. I know it, for a fact. A class president is supposed to represent the school; it's really the highest honor the class can give; and the fellow we elect, whatever else people might find to say about him, ought at least to be square. Now, I'll admit that I'm prejudiced against Dave, because he rather rubbed it into me when I came here first, and it didn't make things any too agreeable, for a while. But that's got nothing at all to do with what I'm telling you now. This is something more than prejudice. Dave isn't on the square, and I can prove it. He cheated in the English Thirteen exam."
There was a chorus of surprised ejaculation. Allen alone said nothing. And then Brewster asked, "How, Dick? Are you sure? That's a pretty serious charge to make against a fellow, if you can't back it up."
But Dick seemed in nowise disposed to retract what he had said. "Oh, I can back it up, all right," he answered. "First, he threw me a note, asking for help. And after that I saw him pull a paper out of his sleeve--you know the kind I mean, the ones they fasten to an elastic--and he was cribbing his answers from that. I saw him as plainly as I ever saw anything in my life. I'd swear to it, on my oath. There's no doubt of it at all."
There was a long silence. Then Dick spoke again. "Well," he asked, "what ought I to do? What ought we to do, rather? Because it's up to you fellows now, just as much as it is to me. You represent the element that stands right back of Mr. Fenton here in the school. What's the best way to act? We can't go to Mr. Fenton, of course; that would be a kid trick; worse than what Dave did. But oughtn't we to tell the fellows? Isn't it only fair, if they want to elect him president, to let them know first what kind of fellow they're picking out to represent the class? Or ought we to go to Dave himself, before we do anything else, and tell him that if he'll withdraw from the election, and promise not to cheat again, we'll keep our mouths shut on the whole thing? I don't know. I've thought about it a lot. People always tell you to do what's right, but they forget to explain how you're going to know what is right, and what's wrong. So I've come to you fellows to help me out. Now what do you say?"
There was a little silence before Brewster spoke out impulsively, "I vote we tell the whole school. It isn't right that a thing like that should happen, and a fellow get away with it. It's a downright dirty trick, I think. I move we tell the whole crowd, right away."
Putnam shook his head. "No," he objected; "that would be foolish. It's the worst mistake you can make to blaze ahead too quick, before you've figured out the things that may happen. Suppose Dave denies the whole business, what then?"
Dick's cheeks flamed. "Why, Jim," he cried; "you don't think I'm lying, do you? You don't mean to say you doubt my word?"
Putnam smiled. "Of course I don't, Dick," he answered. "I know you too well for that. But I was thinking of what I've heard my father say, when he's been talking about his law cases. 'Put yourself in the other fellow's place,' is his great expression, 'and see what you'd do then. That will help you in working up your side of the argument.' And that's a good idea, isn't it, Harry?"
Allen nodded. "Sure," he replied; "they do something like that in literary criticism. 'Playing the devil's advocate,' they call it. Which means thinking up all the possible objections any one might make, and then going ahead and demolishing them. Yes, that's a good principle to go on."
"Well, then," continued Putnam, "here's what occurs to me. Suppose we do as Ned says, and spread the story through the school. Some one of Dave's friends will come running to him with it right away, and what's Dave going to do then? What's to prevent him from saying that Dick is lying--that Dick's a friend of Harry's, and that this is all a dodge to get Harry elected? And if he does do that, then how does Dick stand? Dave's got an awful following here in the school, and there are some of the fellows, I'm afraid, who wouldn't care a great deal whether he cheated or not. They might consider it was rather a brave thing to try a dodge like that, and carry it through without the master seeing him. And even the decent fellows, who wouldn't stand for such a thing--what are they going to believe? It's Dave's word against Dick's and if they believe Dave, it puts Dick in an awful hole. They're going to say, 'Here's a new boy in the school, who's trying to make all the trouble he can. And he picks out the best athlete we've got, and tries to blackmail him. That's an awfully mean trick, and we'll see that we make the school too hot to hold him?' What do you say to that, Dick?"
Dick looked a little staggered. "Well, I hadn't thought of anything like that," he reluctantly admitted. "I hated to mix up in this thing anyway; yet it didn't seem right to let it slide, without saying a word. And if you go through the world on your principle, Jim, you'll always be keeping quiet, unless you're sure you can prove what you set out to prove. And there are times, I should think, even when you know you're going down to defeat, where you would have to speak out, just because it's the right thing to do. At least, I should think that was what Mr. Fenton would say."
Lindsay, usually a boy of the fewest possible words, spoke up quickly. "You're right, Dick," he said. "This is too important a thing for us to let go. Whether you get into trouble or not, isn't the point. It's a question of our duty to the school. Let's get Dave in here, now, and see how he acts. He may get scared, and own up to everything. If he doesn't, then we can make up our minds what we ought to do next. What say, Harry?"
Allen had been unusually silent, although listening with the keenest interest to all that was being said. Now he nodded. "I think that's a good idea," he said.
Lindsay rose. "Any objection?" he asked of the room in general. No one answered, and he went out, and a few moments later returned, bringing Ellis with him.
If the boy who was about to be accused had any suspicions of what was going to take place, he concealed them admirably. "Hullo, fellows," he said; "what's this gathering for? Track team, or crew?"
Lindsay, acting as spokesman, wasted no time in beating about the bush. "It's neither, Dave," he said at once, "it's a meeting on the class presidency."
Ellis smiled. "Rather an Allen crowd, I guess," he remarked. "I don't see what you wantmefor. I'm going to vote for myself, I'll tell you that now. So Harry needn't waste any politeness on me; he can vote for himself, too, and then we'll be square."
He had thrown himself back into a chair, perhaps a little too elaborately at his ease. Lindsay spoke again. "We're not here in Harry's interests, Dave," he said quietly, "we're here in the interests of the school. We believe you have the better chance of being elected president, but there's a matter that we should like to have explained. We want the president of the class to be a fellow above suspicion in every way, and we want to ask you whether it is true that you were seen to cheat in the examination in English Thirteen?"
Ellis looked at him with well-assumed indignation. "I? Cheat?" he echoed; "well, I guess not. Who the devil dares to say such a thing as that about me? I'll punch his head for him."
Lindsay turned to Randall. "Fire away, Dick," he said.
Dick did not flinch, but looked Ellis squarely in the eye. "I was telling these fellows, Dave," he said, "that I didn't think you were the man to represent the class as president. I've told no one else, but I've told them, in confidence, what you did in the English Thirteen exam. That you first asked me for help, and then cribbed from that paper up your sleeve--"
He got no further. Ellis leaped to his feet, his face white with wrath. "You liar!" he cried.
Dick in his turn started from his seat, his face as angry as Ellis' own. "Hold on," he cried sternly. "I don't like that word, Dave. You'd better take that back."
Ellis sneered. "Not by a long shot," he answered, "that's what you are. And how you've got the nerve to start a story like that--"
Dick drew a little piece of paper from his pocket, and handed it to the boy he was accusing. "You didn't pass me that in the exam?" he demanded.
Ellis leaped to his feet, with wrath
Ellis' denial was almost too ready. "Of course I didn't," he flung back, "that's not my writing. I never saw the paper before. I never cheated in an examination in my life. You're playing dirty politics, Randall, to help Allen; that's what you're doing. But you can go ahead. It won't hurt me. I'll tell the story myself, to every boy in the school, and they can judge who's lying, and who isn't. You'd like to see me in a scrape, I guess, so you might have a chance at the Pentathlon, with me out of it. Oh, I'm on to you and your schemes--"
He was storming on, half beside himself with rage. But as he uttered the words, Allen looked quickly up at him, as if taking a sudden resolve. "Just a minute, Dave," he said. His tone was quiet, but there was that in his voice which made Ellis pause, half against his will.
"Well?" he queried, "what have you got to say?"
Allen turned to the others. "Fellows," he said, "this is a dirty business--the whole thing. It makes me sick and disgusted to be mixed up in it. But I've no choice now. I've kept my mouth shut, because, since I was running against Dave, it put me in rather a queer position, and I thought I'd better not speak. But now that Randall's good name is brought into it, I'll tell you what I know. Dave did cheat. I sat behind him in English Thirteen. I saw him write the note and pass it. I saw him use the paper up his sleeve. And he worked the same trick again in History Four." He swung around to Ellis. "Dave," he said, "you have no right to be running for president, and you know it. You'll withdraw right away, or I'll give this story to the school myself. And one thing more. You're trying to make Dick Randall out a liar. Dick's gone into this thing against his will and risked a chance of getting into trouble, for the sake of the school. It was a plucky thing for a fellow to do, and if you breathe one little word to slander him, I'll do something that I wouldn't do in any other case for anything under the sun. I'll go straight to Mr. Fenton with the whole story. And you can take your chance on an investigation. Now then, will you pull out, or not? You can have your choice."
There was a tense silence. An utter change had come over Ellis' face. He had the look of an animal hunted down. "You're mistaken, Harry," he said at last, with an effort at composure, "you're mistaken, I assure you. You don't understand--"
His stammering sentences died away on his lips. No one spoke, and presently Ellis seemed to make up his mind. He raised his head with an expression of resolve. "Look here, you fellows," he said, "I don't want to make any trouble over this thing. But there's something else comes into it, that you don't know. I'm in a row over some money I--lost--and if I don't get it pretty soon, I'm going to be in an awful hole. I might have to leave school," he added craftily, "and then I'd be out of it for the Pentathlon. Let's compromise this, all around. I'll pull out of the presidency, and give Harry a walk-over, and we'll let the business of the English exam drop. It will be the best for every one. If I did anything I ought not to have done, I'm sorry. I was doing it for the school, so that I wouldn't be cut out of the spring athletics. Why don't you fellows, among you, raise me two hundred dollars, and we'll let things go on, just as if nothing had happened at all."
The very effrontery of the proposal almost took away his listeners' breath. Finally Allen spoke. "No, Dave," he said, "that isn't quite the way we do things here. We don't buy our athletes. We want the cup, all right, but we want it on the square. And if you cheated for the sake of the school, I'll only say that's the most remarkable way of showing school spirit that I've heard of yet. No, you will have to withdraw from the presidency, and give us your word never to cheat again. And if you'll do that, we'll let this whole matter rest. I don't know whether that's the fairest way or not, but I think it is. If you're not up for office, it's a private matter then, and one that there's no need of publishing around. So it's up to you, Dave. Quit or not. We'll meet you half-way, whatever you do."
Ellis scowled, and bit his lip. He thought for some moments in silence, then turned to go. "I'll let you know in two days," he said. "You keep quiet till then, and so will I."
He took his departure, leaving the group behind him busy with speculations as to what he meant to do. Yet no one even dreamed what his final decision would really be, and it came to them with a shock of surprise and disgust. For two days later, they learned that Dave Ellis had suddenly left school, and a week after that, Jim Putnam burst quickly into Dick's room, where he and Allen sat studying. "Golly, fellows," he shouted; "what do you think now? Dave's got it in for us, all right. He's entered Hopevale, and I'll bet a dollar it costs us the cup."
It was four o'clock on a bright, warm afternoon in early May. Mr. Fenton, walking briskly toward the athletic field, stopped for a moment at the entrance, to gaze at the scene before him. In the ball-field, beyond the grandstand, the nine was playing a practice game against the subs. The tennis courts were filled, and the track and field men were putting the finishing touches to their afternoon's work. Ned Brewster, captain of the track team, was standing by the side of the high-jump path, and Mr. Fenton, as he crossed the field, stopped for a moment to talk with him. "Well, Ned," he queried, "what are our prospects? Will we draw first blood in the track meet next week, or will Ellis' desertion cost us the games?"
Brewster hesitated. "I don't really know, sir," he said at last. "A week ago, I should have said that everything looked fine, but now I'm not so sure. You see, Greenough's injury makes a big difference. I think he would have been certain of the hundred, and would have taken second in the two twenty, besides, but pulling that tendon puts him out of everything. The doctor says he can't possibly go into the meet.
"And then there's Dick Randall--I was never more disappointed in a fellow in my life. A fortnight ago, he was coming fast--his friend McDonald was simply doing wonders with him. Why, one Saturday afternoon I went over there with Dick, and he was certainly in great form. I measured everything myself, or really I could hardly have believed it. He did five seven in the high, and he cleared the bar by an inch and a half at that. He did twenty feet ten and a half in the broad, on his first try, and McDonald told him not to jump any more-- that that was good enough. And then he took his six tries with the shot, and did thirty-eight three. McDonald told me that day that if he could bring Dick up a little in the hammer, and if he'd get a little faster at the hundred and the hurdles, that he'd give Ellis and Johnson the fight of their lives in the Pentathlon. And then, just when all he needed was a little improvement, instead of going ahead, he started to go back, and he's been growing steadily worse ever since. It doesn't seem to be his fault, you know; he feels more disappointed about it than any one. He never sports at all, and he's the most conscientious worker on the squad. But there's something wrong. He isn't nearly so good as he was two weeks ago. You just watch him now. The bar is only five feet four."
Mr. Fenton looked on attentively, as Randall prepared to jump. There seemed to be a nervous hesitancy about his style. He started twice on his run before he could seem to catch step correctly, and even then, he ran more slowly than usual, as if he lacked confidence in himself, and rose awkwardly at the bar, without much of his former spring. Yet even with these faults, the attempt was none the less a good one. His body was higher than the stick, and he seemed, indeed, just on the point of clearing it in safety; but the necessary momentum was lacking, and despite his efforts, he fell heavily on the bar, knocking it off for the third successive time. He walked dejectedly out of the pit, and stood gazing at the uprights with wrinkled brow, as if striving to figure out the reason for his failure. Mr. Fenton walked over to him. "That was a good try, Randall," he said cheerfully. "A little more speed, and you would have had it. How are you feeling these days? Pretty well?"
Dick paused a moment before answering. "Well, to tell the truth, sir," he said at last, "I don't know what's got into me lately. I was doing quite well, two weeks ago, but now I'm no good at all. My weight is all right, and I feel all right, but I don't seem to have any ginger about me. Why, a month back I should have laughed at five feet four; I should have called that just a practice jump; and now today I try my hardest, and miss it three times running. And I've gone back in the broad jump--I can't do twenty feet now--and I'm not up to standard with the shot, either. The hammer is the only thing I've improved with, and I was so bad with that I couldn't very well have grown worse. Taking everything together, I'm really doing about as badly as a fellow could; and I don't see what the trouble is. I never practised so hard; I never thought so much about my events; I'm really discouraged."
Mr. Fenton glanced him over critically, from head to foot. He seemed worried and anxious, and while he appeared to be well up in weight, and while his muscular development was better than ever, his color was none too good, and his face looked somewhat drawn. Mr. Fenton gave a little nod, like a doctor who diagnoses a patient's condition. "Well, you look pretty well," he said, "but of course you've been doing quite a lot of work. I should say, in the trainers' language, that you were a little 'fine.' Why don't you take a rest, a complete rest, from now until the day of the games?"
Dick shook his head, without intending it, a little impatiently. "Oh, I couldn't, Mr. Fenton," he answered. "There's so much to learn yet, if I go into the Pentathlon. There's a knack I'm trying to work out in the broad jump, and that confounded hammer does bother me so. I think and think about it, and finally I imagine I've got the idea, and then I go out the next day and practise, and find I'm worse than ever. Why, one night, I even dreamed about it. I thought I threw it two hundred and fifty feet, and broke the world's record. Oh, but it felt fine. I was taking three turns, and spinning around like a top, and when I let it go, it went sailing off as high as the roof of a house. So the next morning I tried to remember how I stood in my dream, and how I swung the hammer, and everything, and then I went out in the afternoon and tried to put it all into practice and what do you suppose? I fouled about a mile, and got all tangled up in my feet, and fell down, and pretty nearly broke my neck; so I've lost all faith in dreams."
Mr. Fenton smiled. "I don't blame you," he answered, then added, "How have you been sleeping this last week or two, Randall? As well as when you came here first?"
Dick hesitated; then a little unwillingly replied, "Why, I haven't been sleeping so awfully well. It seems to take me a long time to get to sleep, to start with, and then I usually have some crazy nightmare or other about athletics, and then I wake up with a jump about three or four in the morning, and can't get to sleep again. But I feel all right, just the same. I'm not sick, sir."
Mr. Fenton laughed. "No, you look fairly rugged to me," he answered; "but take a rest from now on, Randall. Don't do any more work to-night; go in and get your rub; and forget all about athletics for a while."
Dick nodded, picked up his sweater, and jogged off across the field. The master walked back to where Brewster was standing. "Well, Ned, there's no mystery about your Pentathlon man," he said, "it's as clear as day. He's going 'stale,' as the trainers say; he's been doing too much work. I don't mean too much for his health. That's all right, or the doctor would have notified me. But Randall's a fellow with nerves, in spite of his strength. And he's lost just enough energy, with all the work he's been doing, to take the edge off his speed and his spring. You must tell him to quit, right where he is; to lock up his spikes and his athletic clothes; and not to come near the track again until the day of the games. If he will do that, you will have him ready for the meet, in as good shape as he ever was in his life. I feel sure of it."
That evening Brewster went over the whole situation with Dick, and gave him his orders, to be carried out to the very letter. Dick promised to obey, and yet to keep from worrying was no easy task. The whole school could talk of nothing but the coming games. Every one was going around, with paper and pencil, figuring the final distribution of the points. There were twelve events altogether; first place counted five, second two, and third one; a total of ninety-six. School spirit ran high, and no one figured in any other way except to give Fenton the victory. Forty points was the favorite figure, and about thirty each for Hopevale and Clinton. It was an interesting, if rather unprofitable employment. And for Dick to keep out of the prevailing excitement was next to impossible, especially when his schoolmates would say, "We've got you figured for second in the high, Dick," or "Do you think you can get third in the broad?"
Again, the program of resting, and keeping away from the field, worried him more than anything else. Accustomed as he was to his daily exercise, his muscles, after the first day's lay-off, began to stiffen, and lacking the experience to know that this was something which would disappear with his rub-down, and his first trial jump in the competition, Dick fretted over it as if it had been some serious muscle strain. Yet somehow, the week went by, and the day of the games came at last.
It was a perfect afternoon, just pleasantly warm and still, with no wind to trouble the distance runners on either stretch. The games were scheduled for two o'clock. By one, the Clinton athletes had arrived; shortly afterward, the Hopevale team put in an appearance; and by half-past one the grandstand and the bleachers were filled, and the boys were beginning to limber up on the track. Dave Ellis, with the blue "H" of Hopevale on his chest, seemed in nowise embarrassed at thus revisiting his old quarters, but came out to practise with the rest, and put the shot well over thirty-eight feet in a preliminary try. Shortly afterward, Dick had his first glimpse of Johnson, the mainstay of the Clinton team. He was a good-looking, pleasant-faced boy, who went about his "warming-up" so quietly and unobtrusively that one would scarcely have selected him, at first, for an athlete of prominence. Yet Dick, watching the play of his long, smooth muscles, and noting how easily and springily he moved up and down the track, knew that he was looking at a first-class man.
Promptly, at five minutes before two, the clerk of the course came hurrying across the field. "All out for the hundred," he called, "hundred yards, last call. All out for the hundred." The games had begun at last.
Dick took his seat on the balcony of the dressing-room, and gazed out at the animated scene. All at once it occurred to him that if he were only a spectator, and not a contestant, he should be thoroughly enjoying the whole affair. It was an inspiriting sight; the level green of the field, the darker oval of the track, the grandstand, bright with color; and now, walking slowly over toward the start of the hundred, the six contestants, two from each team, each bound to do his utmost to score for his school. He could distinguish Steve Lindsay; the tall figure of Harris of Clinton, the favorite, conspicuous in his striped jersey of red and black; and the figures of the two Hopevale men, of whom little was known, with the light blue "H. A. A." on their shirts. There was the usual warming-up, a word or two of caution from the starter, and then his whistle blew loud and shrill. There came an answering wave of a handkerchief from the spot where the judges and timers stood grouped around the tape.
In the hush that followed, Dick could hear the starter's voice sound sharp and clear across the field. "On your marks!" The six figures crouched. "Get set!" They bent forward, tense, expectant. And then a puff of smoke from the starter's upraised pistol--"Bang!" and they were off, to a perfect start. Dick's hands clenched; his eyes strained to distinguish the entries from his school. For a moment the crowd was silent, and then, as the first thirty or forty yards were covered, and the runners began to separate and draw apart, there arose a tumult of shouts and cheers, above it all the cries from Fenton, "Lindsay! Lindsay! Lindsay!" It was true enough. Lindsay was ahead, a foot or two in front of Adams of Hopevale, with Harris several yards behind. At fifty yards it was the same--and at sixty--and then all at once Harris seemed to settle to his stride. He drew up on the leaders with a rush, at eighty yards was on even terms, and then, forging steadily ahead, crossed the line a safe winner, with Lindsay just beating out Adams for second place. In a moment, Dick could hear the scorer's stentorian tones echoing over the field. "Hundred yards dash--won by Harris of Clinton; Lindsay of Fenton, second; Adams of Hopevale, third; time, ten and two-fifths seconds." And then, on the big score board at the end of the field, the huge figures were hoisted that all might see.
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale5 2 1
With the cheers of the Clinton delegation still ringing out on the air, the runners came jogging back to the dressing-rooms, and the next event--the hundred and twenty yards high hurdles--was called. Already the men employed on the field were setting out the obstacles on the track. There were but four entries, for Barker and Jones, the Hopevale hurdlers, so far outclassed their field that Arnold of Clinton, and Taylor of Fenton had been entered with no hope of first or second, but merely to battle for the single point which would reward third place. Yet the race displayed the uncertainties of athletics in general, and of the high hurdles in particular; for while Barker, the winner of the previous year, took the lead at the start, and was never headed, Jones, his team-mate, loafing comfortably along in second place, got in too close at the sixth hurdle, struck it heavily, staggered a few steps, and plunged headlong into the seventh, bringing it down with him to the ground. After this disaster, there was no hope of a recovery, and Arnold took second place, and Taylor third, making unexpected and welcome additions to the winnings of their schools. The figures on the blackboard were shifted, and Clinton's lead was reduced, while the Fenton score looked somewhat small beside the other two.
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale7 3 6
So ran the totals, and even as Dick studied them, the clerk's cry sounded quick and sharp, "All out for the quarter; all out for the mile; all out for the pole vault, hammer throw, broad jump." Dick started. For the moment he had almost forgotten that he was to compete at all. Quickly coming to himself, he rose, picked up his spikes, and made his way down-stairs and across the field. Just ahead of him were Harry Allen, Jack Morrison and Jim Egan, the three Fenton entries in the quarter, and Brewster himself, rated as sure winner of the mile, came jogging up behind him, and fell into step by his side. "How's your courage, old man?" he asked.
"Oh, pretty fair," Dick answered, "we haven't made much of a start, though."
Brewster shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, never mind the hundred and the hurdles," he said, "we didn't count on much there, anyway. But we'll score big in the quarter, I think; and if I don't go to pieces in the mile, we might get something there, too. You tear down at that old take-off, now, Dick, and we'll rip those A's off your shirt for you to-night. You get us a point, anyway."
"I'll do my best," Dick replied, and an instant later he was answering to his name, with the half-dozen other contestants in the event. Stripping off his sweater, he took an easy practice jump, and as he did so, a great load seemed lifted from his mind. He knew that he had recovered his spring, and the excitement of the competition made him feel that he could beat anything he had done in practice. "I guess Mr. Fenton knew what was the matter with me, all right," he murmured to himself.
His name was the first called. He made his mark at exactly fifty feet from the take-off, laid the sleeve of his sweater at the edge of the path, and walked back another forty feet or so for his preliminary run. He tried to remember all the instructions that McDonald had given him, but in his excitement, he could think of little more than of hitting his mark correctly, and of getting a good lift into the air. "All ready," cried the scorer, "Randall, Fenton, first try."
Dick stood erect, drew a long breath, and then, with muscles tense and rigid, began his run. One--two--three--four--five--six-- seven--eight--came his preliminary strides, and he sensed, rather than knew, that he had brought the toe of his jumping shoe just even with the sweater's crimson sleeve. And then, for the last eight strides, he ran with every ounce of energy he possessed; bang, he hit the take-off fair and square, and landed far out in the pit, his knees thrown well in front of him. There was a ripple of applause from the grandstand, and he knew that the jump must at least have been a fair one. He stood waiting at the side of the pit, while the measurers did their work. Then the man at the farther end of the tape straightened up, announcing, "Twenty feet, six and one-quarter."
Dick jogged back, well satisfied. The distance was nearly as good as his best, and he felt confident of qualifying for the finals. Two or three of the other contestants jumped in the neighborhood of nineteen feet, and then Harding of Hopevale jumped twenty feet, three. No one else equalled Dick's mark until Johnson's name was called. The Clinton athlete stood waiting for the dirt to be raked over in the pit, and Dick found himself, half against his will, admiring the Pentathlon man's graceful, clean-cut build. He was an inch or two taller than Dick, not so broad-shouldered or so muscular, but with that indefinable stamp of the athlete, which for want of a better word, we characterize as "rangy." As he started for his jump, Dick watched him critically, noticing that he ran hard, with his knees lifted well into the air, and then, as Johnson struck the take-off, and leaped, he gave a little gasp of surprise. Here was form, indeed, beside which the efforts of the others appeared as nothing. This was no mere run from the board; it was a real jump. Johnson shot into the air, feet in front of him, sailing along like a cannon ball. Instantly, the grandstand burst into a shout of applause. From the Clinton section came a continued burst of organized cheering, and the announcer threw an extra impressiveness into his voice as he shouted, "Mr. Johnson jumps twenty-one, three and three-quarters."
Johnson came walking back, a smile on his face. Dick accosted him good-naturedly. "That was a dandy," he said. "You can have this event, I guess. You won't have to jump again."
Johnson took the other's speech in good part. "Oh, I don't know," he answered, sitting down at Dick's side and drawing his bath-robe around his knees. "You can't ever tell till the last man's had his last try." Then, after a little pause, he added, "Are you going to try the Pentathlon, Randall?"
Dick nodded. "I think so," he answered, "though I don't expect to do much against you and Ellis. Still, I guess I'll give it a try, anyway. There doesn't seem to be any one else to represent the school. But if I can't win," he added, "I tell you, right now, I hope you give Ellis the worst licking he ever had in his life."
Johnson nodded. "I know just how you fellows feel about Ellis," he said, "and I don't blame you a bit. A chap that will leave his school in the lurch like that can't have much of the right stuff in him. But I don't know about licking him. He's awfully good in the weights. And the Hopevale crowd say that since he came there he's improved a lot, too. I don't know whether it's so or not, but they claim he's beating forty feet with the shot, right along. And that he's throwing the hammer a hundred and sixty. But you can't tell. They may be trying to scare us, so we'll think it's no use to enter, even. Never can tell beforehand--that's my motto in athletics."
Dick nodded, and was about to answer, when the scorer called, "Randall, second try." Dick rose, and was making ready for his run, when the scorer waved him back. "No, don't jump, Mr. Randall," he cried. "Sit down again, please. Wait till they run the quarter mile."
Dick nodded, and complied. Every eye in the field was turned on the start of the quarter. The nine athletes stretched straight across the track. Dick saw that Morrison of his own school was on the pole; that Harry Allen was sixth in line, and that their third entry, Egan, was on the extreme outside. "Bang!" went the pistol, and the runners were off, in a mad burst for the lead to the first turn. There was little to be distinguished for a moment or two, and then, as they rounded and squared away for the back stretch, Dick's heart gave a great leap of excitement. Morrison had held his lead, Egan had cut clean across in front of the others, and was second; only Allen lay back, in seventh position, apparently "pocketed" and unable to extricate himself. Up the stretch they swung, in steady, rhythmical procession; from across the field one would have said that they scarcely moved; so greatly did the added distance deceive the eye. Once a Hopevale runner spurted and tried to pass the leaders, but they quickened their pace in turn, and he fell back into the ruck, beaten and exhausted. Dick could not take his eyes from Allen's figure. He hardly realized, until that moment, how much he cared for his friend; he felt as if he himself were running the race; under his breath he was muttering, "Go it, Harry! Go it, old man!"
Around the curve they swung, and squared away for home. A great shout came from the grandstand "Fenton, Fenton, Fenton!" and then "Morrison! Egan!" "Go it, Morrison! Go it, Egan!" again and again.
It was a Fenton victory; there was no doubt of that. The two runners were yards ahead of the field, and though both were tiring, they seemed certain of keeping their lead to the tape, well ahead of the rest. Dick felt a mixture of emotions. He was glad, first of all, of course, for the school, and yet, mingled with his joy, there was a tinge of sorrow for his friend. For he knew Allen's ambition had been to wind up his last year with a win, and he felt that after all the work he had done, it would be only a fair reward. Yet, barring the impossible, Allen was beaten. And then, while all these thoughts were flashing through his brain in a hundredth part of the time it takes to put the words on paper, the seemingly impossible did happen. All at once, as Dick sought for his friend's figure in the struggling ruck, he caught sight of him, running wide on the outside of the field, but cutting loose at last, with all the energy which he had held in reserve, while he had been forced to wait and hang back, pocketed, against his will. He did not merely pass the wearied runners from the other two schools; he flashed by them as if they had been standing still. It was a sight to bring a crowd to its feet, and to its feet it came.
Never for one instant did Allen's splendid stride relax. His eyes were half closed, his head was thrown a little to one side, his lips were drawn back from his teeth, but he ran like a race-horse, true, steady, and game to the core, putting out the last ounce in him in a finish such as Fenton Field had rarely seen. Twenty yards from the tape he passed his schoolmates, still locked shoulder to shoulder, and keeping still to his tremendous pace, swept by the post--a winner.
The whole Fenton section of the stand was in an uproar. First, second and third; a clean sweep--all eight points in the quarter--here was something to buoy up their hopes at last. Nor did this end their good fortune. A moment later the mile runners were started on their long four circuits of the track, and Ned Brewster justified all the predictions that had been made for him. He had the rest of the field outclassed, and saving himself for the half-mile which was to come later, made no effort at fast time, winning easily in four minutes and forty-eight seconds, with Sheldon of Clinton second, and Marshall of Hopevale third. The scorer at the bulletin board again shifted his big figures, and now they read:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale9 16 7
Dick went back to his broad jump trials with a light heart. It seemed that the meet was as good as won. On his second trial he stepped over the take-off and made a foul jump, and on his third, in his anxiety not to repeat the mistake, he fell short of the board by almost a foot, and though the actual distance was greater than anything he had yet done, in measurement it amounted to but twenty feet and one-half an inch. Yet he qualified for the finals, for Harding of Hopevale was the only man who bettered his mark to any extent. On his second attempt he cleared twenty feet, eight inches; while Johnson, after his first good jump, waived his next two trials, watching the work of the others to see whether he need jump again, or could save himself for the high.
Dick had felt himself grow more limber with each successive jump, and now felt sure that if he could once catch the take-off correctly, he could improve his mark. On his first trial, in the finals, he accomplished what he wished, and knew, even while still in midair, that he had excelled his first performance. The measurer pulled the tape up carefully to the mark left by Dick's heels in the soft, well-rolled earth, and then announced, "Twenty-one one and a half." Dick grew suddenly elated. It was the best jump he had ever made. He was ahead of Harding; almost up to Johnson himself. For a moment he even dreamed that he might prove the winner, after all. But his triumph was short-lived. Johnson pulled off his sweater and took his second try, and this time, putting a trifle more speed into his run, cleared twenty-one, seven and a quarter. Dick failed to improve on his second and third tries, yet he seemed sure of second place until Harding's last jump. The Hopevale man put all his energies into his attempt, and even from where Dick stood he could tell that the jump was a good one. A moment later the announcer called, "Mr. Harding jumps twenty-one, five," and Dick was put back to third. Yet he had won a point for the school, and with it the right to wear his "F."
And now the clerk came running up with two sheets of paper in his hand. He gave them to the announcer, who forthwith called out, "Throwing the sixteen-pound hammer--won by Ellis of Hopevale--second, Merrihew of Hopevale--third, Robinson of Fenton. Distance, one hundred and fifty-eight feet, eleven inches."
There followed a storm of cheers from the Hopevale section, and the announcer, raising his hand for silence, continued, "Pole vault, won by Garfield of Fenton--second, Amory of Hopevale--third, Hollingsworth of Hopevale--height, ten feet, six inches." Applause from Fenton, and again from Hopevale, for the second and third had not been looked for. And now the score board showed:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale14 23 19
Decidedly, matters were growing interesting. The next three track events were run off quickly, and without making much change in the relative positions of the schools. Brewster won the half for Fenton, in the good time of two, two and a quarter, with Cartwright of Hopevale second, and Donaldson of Clinton third. The two-twenty, as is so often the case, resulted exactly as the hundred had done, Harris of Clinton winning in twenty-two and four-fifths, with Lindsay of Fenton second, and Adams of Hopevale third. In the low hurdles Fenton was shut out altogether, while Hopevale was deprived of two points on which she had counted, for though Barker, who had been first in the high, repeated his victory in the longer race, and won handily in twenty-six and three-fifths, Jones' injured knee was too stiff to allow him to start, and Ballantyne and Salisbury of Clinton took second and third for their school. Thus but two events--the shot and the high jump--were left, and the score board showed:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale23 30 27
The shot was called first, and Brewster, his eyes gleaming with excitement, came hurriedly up to Dick. "Do your best, old man," he whispered. "Every point is going to count now. If you could get second it would be great; even third would help a lot. This is going to be the closest meet we ever had."
Dick nodded, though feeling little confidence in his chances. Ellis and Merrihew, he considered, were practically sure of first and second; with Ross of Clinton he felt that he had a fighting chance for third. Every eye was turned on the shot ring, and the scorer called, "Ellis of Hopevale, first try."
Ellis, big and strong and brawny, stepped forward with perfect confidence, poised for a moment, and then leaped into his put. Even Dick, much as he disliked the performer, could not repress a thrill of admiration for the performance. It was a splendid try--clean, fast, with a fine follow--and all done so easily that Dick could scarcely credit his ears when the measurer gave his result to the announcer, and the latter shouted, "Mr. Ellis puts thirty-nine, four and a half."
Two other contestants made tries which fell five or six feet short of Ellis', and then Ross put thirty-seven, four. Directly after him Merrihew, big and ungainly, with brute strength enough to move a mountain, made a slow, awkward put of thirty-eight, two. Then Dick's name was called. Again Brewster whispered, "Do your best, old man," and Allen slapped him encouragingly on the back. "Remember not to try too hard, Dick," he said. Both meant their advice in the kindest possible way, but it was a mistake of inexperience. Dick, for the first time in his athletic career, in a really tight place, felt as if he were moving in a dream, and his schoolmates' words only served to increase his nervousness. He took his place in the ring. The shot seemed to have grown terribly heavy, and forgetting everything that McDonald had been drilling into him for the past weeks, he put blindly, and walked out of the circle, scarcely knowing whether he had done well or ill. There was an ominous silence, and then the scorer announced, "Mr. Randall puts thirty-two, ten and a half."
Dick felt himself flush. There was a sneer on Ellis' face. He spoke loudly enough for every one around the circle to hear. "That's the Pentathlon man from Fenton," he said to Merrihew. "He's all right, isn't he? He's a dandy."
With an effort Dick kept control of himself. And then the second round began. It resulted in a general improvement. Ellis put forty feet and one inch; Ross thirty-seven, eleven; Merrihew thirty-eight, nine. When it came Dick's turn he forced himself to imagine that he was practising alone in McDonald's field, with no crowd to trouble him. He put his whole mind on his form, and as a result, did better, getting in a try of thirty-six, seven. Yet he felt far from satisfied, and all at once it flashed upon him that he was doing the very thing which McDonald had told him, long ago, was his besetting fault, that he was stiffening up too soon in his effort, and not getting the powerful, sweeping drive which made Ellis' trials so successful.
The third round began. Ellis fell back a few inches, putting thirty-nine, ten and a half; Ross improved to thirty-eight, four; Merrihew put an even thirty-nine feet. "Thirty-eight four to beat," Dick kept thinking to himself. He had never done it in practice, but now, if ever, was the time. His name was called. He was perfectly cool by this time; he knew exactly what he wished to do; and poising easily at the back of the ring, he swung into his put, and finished through with every bit of strength he possessed. It was a better try than his others--he knew that, on the instant--but was it good enough for the point. The measurers seemed to take longer than usual over their task. Finally the announcer cried, "Thirty-eight, three and a half." Dick turned away, sick at heart. He had failed; the point was lost.
Brewster and Allen were at his side in an instant, cheering him as best they could. "That's all right, old man," Brewster cried; "don't you care. You beat your record. You can't do impossibilities. Don't you mind." But Dick refused to be comforted. "A half an inch," he kept repeating to himself, over and over again. "The least little bit more ginger; the least little bit better form; a half an inch; confound the luck!" and he sat gloomily watching the finals, which resulted as expected, Ellis first, Merrihew second, Ross third. And the score board showed:
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale24 30 34
The high jump alone remained. Brewster figured for a moment, and then came over to Dick. "I don't want to rattle you, old man," he said, "but there's just one chance in a hundred still. Hopevale hasn't a man that's any good in the high; Clinton's got Johnson and Robinson. If you could get a streak of jumping and beat Johnson, we'd win by a point."
Dick nodded. "I'll do everything that's in me, Ned," he said quietly, and Brewster felt satisfied with the reply.
The high jump was soon under way. At five feet, two, only Johnson, Robinson and Dick were left. At five four, Robinson failed, scoring a single point for Clinton. And then ensued a duel between Johnson and Dick. Dick was jumping in his old time form, with plenty of speed and spring, and all the stimulus of knowing that he might yet save the day. Both boys cleared five, five, and five, six, in safety. At five, seven, Johnson failed on his first trial, and the Fenton supporters felt a sudden gleam of hope. Dick made ready for his try, every muscle working in unison, every fiber in his body intent on clearing the bar in safety. He ran down easily, quickened his pace on his last three strides, and leaped. It was a splendid effort, save that he had taken off a trifle too far from the bar. He was almost over and then, in a last effort to work his body clear he lost his balance, just grazing the bar, and fell into the pit, landing with one leg under him. There was a moment's suspense; the bar hung undecidedly, springing up and down under the impact of Dick's body--and then, just as the Fenton crowd were getting ready to cheer, it gave one final shiver and dropped into the pit at Dick's side. The cheers were changed to a groan of disappointment, and then the silence grew almost painful as Dick did not rise. Brewster hurried over to him; Randall's face was white with pain. "Ankle, Ned," he said. "Give me a hand up, please."
A moment later the doctor was examining him. "No break," he announced at last, "and nothing really serious. But that ends it for to-day. Another wrench, and you can't tell what would happen. Sorry, but it's the fortune of war."
Dick protested vigorously. "I can get around on it," he cried, "let me jog up and down, Doctor, and then take one more try. I don't care what happens."
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Don't be foolish, Dick," he said. "You couldn't jump three feet with that ankle. Don't walk on it, either, you must give it absolute rest."
Yet Dick insisted, and gamely tried to hobble back to the jumping path. The effort was vain. Things swam around him, and with a long sigh of disappointment he sank back on the ground. "All right, I'll quit," he said, and a moment later Johnson cleared the height, and the games were done.
Clinton--Fenton--Hopevale30 32 34
It had been the closest meet in the history of the schools. Half an hour later, as Dick left the locker-room, leaning on Allen's shoulder, he heard Dave Ellis' voice, holding forth to a knot of admiring supporters from Hopevale.
"Turn his ankle? Not a bit of it," he was saying. "That's an old gag. He knew when he was licked. He's got no sand. He won't go into the Pentathlon now."
Dick shook off Allen's detaining hand and thrust open the door. "Sounds natural, Dave," he said, meeting Ellis' surprised glance with a rather grim smile, "but if it interests you to know it, he will go into the Pentathlon, and perhaps he'll make you hustle, too." He banged the door behind him and limped away, his hand on Allen's shoulder, down the stairs.