The track meet was over, and Hopevale had scored three points toward the cup. Another victory, either in the ball game or the boat race, and the competition would be ended. And this victory they were bent on winning, while the other two schools were equally determined to wipe out defeat, and to overcome their rival's lead, in the three contests which remained.
On the Saturday after the track games came the first round in the base-ball league. Luck was with Fenton; they had the good fortune to draw the bye, and the small party of boys who went to see the game between Clinton and Hopevale was composed largely of experts, anxious to "get a line" on the opposing teams, and to note the strong and weak points in their play.
Until the last two innings it was a close and interesting contest. Prescott, the Clinton pitcher, proved a puzzle to his opponents, but his support was none of the best; and thus, while the Clinton team hit the Hopevale pitcher freely, the home nine, on the other hand, put up a splendid fielding game, and for seven innings the score was a tie, five to five. And then, in the eighth, there came, for Hopevale, one of those unhappy times, when things go from bad to worse with the rapidity of lightning. A base hit, a base on balls, and a sacrifice put men on second and third, with only one out; and then a clean two-bagger between center and right scored them both. After which the Hopevale team, in the slang of the game, "went up into the air."
On the next play their short-stop, in an endeavor to catch the runner coming from second base, threw wild to third; another base on balls followed; and then, just at the psychological moment, Ferguson, the heavy hitter of the Clinton team, sent a screaming three-bagger far over the center-fielder's head. Altogether, by the time Hopevale had steadied again, and the inning had ended, they found the score eleven to five against them; and although they made one run in the eighth, and another in the ninth, that was all, and it was Clinton's game, eleven to seven. Supporters of both Fenton and Clinton breathed again. One of them would win, and the other lose, but Hopevale, their common enemy, had not yet secured the cup.
The succeeding Saturday was the banner day of the sports. Ten o'clock in the morning was the time set for the final ball game; and the boat race was scheduled for three in the afternoon. The ball game was played on the Clinton grounds, yet four carloads of spectators went down from Fenton to cheer for their nine, and filled a good-sized section of the grandstand with their crimson flags. Jim Putnam, with the rest of the crew, stayed at home, to store up the last final ounce of energy for the afternoon. Dick, Allen, Brewster and Lindsay sat together, watching the tall and ungainly Prescott going through his gyrations as he warmed up for the game. He appeared, as Allen remarked, to be a "tough proposition." His delivery was so deceptively easy that one scarcely realized the speed and power behind it, until the ball struck, with a vicious "thut," in the catcher's glove. And his curves looked as formidable as his speed. Brewster sighed as he watched him. "Now how are they going to hit a fellow like that?" he asked.
Allen, the optimistic, made haste to answer, "Oh, you can't tell," he said, "he may get tired before he gets through. And we've got a better fielding team than they have, I know. Besides, when you're talking about pitchers, Ed Nichols is no slouch. You can bet they won't knock him out of the box. Our show is as good as theirs."
As he spoke, the umpire consulted for a moment with Jarvis, the Fenton captain, and Crawford, the leader of the Clinton team. Then the coin spun upward into the air, and immediately the Clinton players scattered to their positions in the field, and the Fenton nine took their places on the visitors' bench. "There," said Brewster, "bad luck to start with. We've lost the toss."
There followed the tense hush which always precedes the beginning of a championship game. The umpire tossed out a new ball, which the elongated Prescott at once proceeded to deface by rubbing it around, with great thoroughness, in the dirt. Abbot, the Fenton short-stop, stepped to the plate, and the umpire gave the time-honored command, "Play ball!"
The redoubtable Prescott eyed the batsman for an instant with what seemed to the Fenton crowd a glare of hate, held the ball extended before him, then, in Allen's phrase, "tied himself up into a number of double bow-knots," and let fly. Abbot made no attempt to strike at the ball; it appeared to be traveling too high; yet just before it reached the plate it shot quickly downward, and the umpire called, "Strike--one."
At the second ball Abbot made a terrific lunge, but met only the air, and a moment later, as Stevens, the Clinton catcher, moved up behind the bat, a fast inshoot neatly cut the corner of the plate, and with the words, "Strike--three--striker out," Abbot walked dejectedly back to the bench.
Crosby, the second man up, had slightly better fortune, for, as Allen remarked, in an endeavor to keep up the courage of the others, "he had a nice little run for his money," hitting an easy grounder to second base, and being thrown out at first. Sam Eliot, the third man to face Prescott, followed Abbot's example, and struck out. The Fenton half of the inning ended in gloom.
Now came Clinton's turn at the bat. Bates, the first man up, had two strikes called on him, and then hit a clean, swift ball over second base, and reached first in safety. Crawford, the Clinton captain, bunted, advancing Bates to second. Then Nichols settled down to work, and Davenport, the third batsman, was retired on strikes. Two out, a man on second, and Ferguson, the much-dreaded heavy hitter, at the bat, Nichols and Jarvis held consultation, and as a result Ferguson was given his base on balls. It seemed good generalship, yet in the sequel, it proved unfortunate, for Gilbert, the next man up, made a tremendous drive far out into center field and never stopped running until he had reached third, while Bates and Ferguson crossed the plate. The Clinton section of the grandstand became delirious with enthusiasm, in the midst of which Manning, the sixth man at bat for the home team, hit weakly to Nichols, and was thrown out at first. Two to nothing. It looked like Clinton's day.
Nor did Fenton's chances seem brighter in the second. Again three men came to bat, and again they were retired, without one of them reaching first. Yet there was comfort in the latter half of the inning, for Nichols steadied down, and proved as much of a puzzle as Prescott himself. The Clinton men, in their turn, went out in one, two, three order, and the hopes of the Fenton supporters faintly revived.
Four more innings passed without another run being scored. It was a genuine pitchers' battle, man after man, on either side, striking out, hitting easy grounders to the infield, or popping up abortive flies. The beginning of the seventh, however, brought a change. Jarvis was the first man at bat for Fenton, and he started things auspiciously by making a pretty single, close along the third base foul line. It seemed like the time for taking chances, and on the next ball pitched, he started for second, and aided by a poor throw by Stevens, the Clinton catcher, made it in safety. Taylor, the next man at bat, struck a sharp, bounding grounder toward second base, and the Hopevale second-baseman ingloriously let it go through his legs. The Fenton crowd in the grandstand, long deprived of a chance to cheer, shouted themselves hoarse. A man on third, and one on first, and no one out. The chances for tying the score looked bright.
At this point, however, Prescott exerted all his skill. Warren, coached to hit the ball at any cost, tried his best, but in vain. One strike--one ball--two strikes--two balls--three strikes, and out. It was Clinton's turn to exult. Nichols, the weakest batsman on the Fenton team, was next in order, and to the surprise of friends and foes alike, he made as pretty a single over short-stop's head as one could have wished to see, scoring Jarvis and advancing Taylor to second. Then came Abbot's turn, and this time he had his revenge for two successive strike-outs by making a long drive between left and center, good for two bases, and bringing Taylor and Nichols home. Fenton was in the lead, and the grandstand became a mass of blazing crimson. Such a batting streak, however, was too good to last. Crosby hit a pop fly to Prescott, and Eliot struck out. Yet Fenton was well content. Three to two; and only two innings and a half to play.
Clinton's half of the seventh resulted in no score; and in the eighth both sides retired in order, Prescott and Nichols again on their mettle, and pitching as if their very lives depended on the outcome of the game. In the ninth Fenton made a splendid effort to increase their lead. With two out, and with men on second and third, Crosby hit a liner that looked good enough to score both men, and then Bates, the Clinton short-stop, pulled off the star play of the game, leaping high into the air, and getting his right hand on the ball just at the one possible moment--a clean, sensational catch that set the followers of both schools cheering, and stopped the Fenton scoring where it stood.
Then came the last of the ninth. The inning opened well for Fenton. Prescott hit a long fly to center field, which Irwin captured without difficulty. Bates bunted, and aided by his fleetness of foot, beat the ball to first. Crawford struck out. The game was almost won, and then came one of those sudden plays, that in a flash changes a defeat into a victory. Davenport swung on the first ball pitched, met it fair and square, with a crack that sounded like a rifle shot, and lifted it, as if on wings, clear over the left field fence. Red and black had its turn; flags waved; throats grew hoarse with cheering; Bates jogged home, and Davenport made the circuit of the bases at sprinting speed, while the crowd poured out on the field and bore him away on their shoulders in triumph. The game was ended--four to three--and Clinton was even with Hopevale for the cup. It was a silent procession of Fenton followers who walked down from the field, to take the train for home.
An hour later Dick entered Putnam's room, to find his classmate stretched, resting, on the bed. He looked up eagerly. "Well?" he queried.
Dick shook his head. "They licked us," he answered, "but there's no kick coming. It was a dandy game. I never want to see a better one. It looked as if we had it--" and he went over the whole story for Putnam's benefit, detailing every play, as it had occurred. "And so they licked us," he concluded, "and now, Jim, it seems to be most everlastingly up to you."
Putnam rose and began to pace up and down the room. "That's about the size of it," he answered, "and, thank goodness, we've got no hard luck stories to tell. We're in good shape--every one of us--and right on edge, too. If we're licked, it's because they've got better crews. But, by golly," he added, "they've got to go some, Dick. I don't care if I row the whole crew out, and we don't come to for a week, but we'll do our darndest, anyway. It's make or break, now."
Dick nodded. "Yes, it's win or nothing," he said; "but I'm glad of one thing. I guess Clinton's got a better crew than Hopevale, and if wecan'twin, then the cup goes to Clinton. And our old friend, Dave, can win all the Pentathlons he likes; it won't do him any good then. But we won't back down till we have to. You may lick 'em, after all."
Putnam squared his shoulders. "Dick," he said solemnly, "you watch us in the last half-mile, and if you can come to me afterward, and tell me that I didn't hit things up to the last notch, then you can hold my head under water till I drown. If I don't do my level best, and then some, I'm a Dutchman."
Dick laughed. "I'll watch you, all right," he answered, "but not to criticize; only to yell for all I'm worth, whether you're ahead or behind. We're with you, Jim, win or lose. The crowd of us have hired a launch, so if our moral support is going to help you any, on your way down the river, why you'll know you've got it."
The time before the race dragged away somehow, and shortly before three, the launch, with Allen, Brewster, Lindsay and Dick on board, came to a halt, with a dozen other craft, off the starting buoys, marking the beginning of the two-mile course. It was the perfection of racing weather, the water calm and smooth as a mirror, yet with the sky overcast, so as to temper the heat of the sun. One by one the crews came paddling out from the big boat-house on the shore. First came Hopevale, their blue-bladed oars dipping prettily together, and the blue cap on their coxswain's head making them easy to distinguish from the others. After them came Clinton, the winners of the previous year, a rangy, speedy-looking crew, their red and black jerseys looming up more prominently than the quieter colors of their rivals. And last of all, their own boat left the shore, Blagden at bow, Selfridge at two, "Big" Smith at three, and Putnam at stroke. Little "Skeeter" Brown, the eighty-pound coxswain, sat in the stern, megaphone strapped around his head, his big, long-visored crimson jockey cap pulled down about his ears.
The referee's launch tooted a warning blast. The three crews increased their speed a trifle, and one by one took up their positions, Hopevale on the outside, Clinton in the middle, Fenton nearest the boat-house shore. The coxswains gripped the starting-lines, the referee talked briefly to the three captains in turn, and then, backing his launch, made ready to give the signal for the start. It was a pretty sight: the rival crews, tense and ready, awaiting the word; the little fleet of pleasure craft which was to follow in their wake; on shore the eager enthusiasts who were to pursue them on bicycles or in motors along the bank. And Dick, as he gazed around him, could not but think of that other crowd, waiting so eagerly at the finish, two miles away, and turning the sober old river into a garden of variegated color, with the flags and ribbons of the different schools.
The referee's right arm was outlined in silhouette against the sky. A moment's silence and then the pistol cracked, the little wreath of smoke curled upward, and the twelve oars caught the water like one. A tooting of whistles, a medley of shouts and cheers; the race was on.
The boys stood well forward, as the bow of their launch cut through the water, their eyes fixed on the three crews, as they shot away down stream. Clinton had the lead, that was already evident. They had gained it in the first half-dozen strokes, and had increased it, first to a quarter length, then to a half, Hopevale and Fenton fighting, bow and bow, for second place. For a quarter-mile they kept the same positions, and then, all at once, Hopevale--the crew the boys had rated as the least dangerous--took a sudden spurt. Quickening their stroke perceptibly, they drew away from Fenton, then came even with Clinton, and finally were a clear length in the lead. "Look at 'em!" cried Lindsay. "I didn't know they could row like that. Look at 'em go!"
Allen eyed them critically. Their boat did not move as smoothly as the others; there was a perceptible roll from side to side; there was some splashing by bow and two; yet for all that, the crew was made up of big, strong oarsmen, and despite their evident lack of form, they drove their shell ahead at a tremendous pace. But Allen shook his head. "They won't last," he said. "They'll be rowed out at a mile."
Dick hastened to dissent. "I don't believe it, Harry," he replied. "A two-mile race isn't like a four-mile. I think they can hold that pace, and if they do, they'll win. Look at 'em 'dig. There! There goes Clinton after 'em! Why doesn't Jim hit 'er up, too? There! Now he's quickened. Oh, good boy, Jim! That's the stuff! Soak it to 'em!"
He was shouting as if he fancied Putnam could hear every word he said, unmindful of the fact that every one else around him was shouting as well. Hopevale had drawn away still more, and then, as a half-length of open water showed between them and Clinton, the Clinton crew had at last begun to quicken in their turn. Slowly they drew up on the leaders, and then, just as Dick had begun his yells of encouragement, for the first time Putnam had raised his stroke, and the three boats passed the mile-post with Hopevale a length ahead, and Clinton a half-length in front of the Fenton crew.
For another quarter-mile there was practically no change. Brewster began to worry. "Why doesn't Jim spurt?" he cried. "If Hopevale keeps it up, they win. It's only a quarter-mile to the turn."
Sure enough, they could see, ahead of them, the bend that marked the last half-mile of the course. Yet still Putnam did not quicken; in fact, he dropped back a trifle, and the boys' hearts sank like lead. Only Dick, remembering what Putnam had said to him that morning, kept repeating to himself, "The last half-mile; the last half-mile."
And now, into the swarm of boats along the banks, into the noise and din of the crowds, the three crews steered around the bend, and squared away for home. The race between Clinton and Hopevale was so close and pretty to watch that for a moment the boys had taken their eyes off their own crew; and then, suddenly, Dick began shouting like a maniac, "Oh, Jim, give it to 'em! That's the boy, Jim! Give it to 'em! That's the boy!"
With one accord the others turned, and the next moment were joining in Randall's frenzied cries. For the spurt had come at last. Putnam had cut loose with every ounce of power at his command; Big Smith at three was backing him gallantly, passing forward the heightened stroke, and Selfridge and Blagden were quickening like heroes in their turn. Nor were the boys in the launch the only ones to note the change. All the shouts of the crowd had been, "Hopevale! Clinton!" Yet now there came a roar from the banks, "Oh, well rowed! Well rowed, Fenton! Go in! Go in and win!"
Never did Randall forget that last half-mile. Gallantly the Hopevale boys stuck to their work, yet the smooth, persistent power of the Clinton boat was not to be denied, and a quarter-mile from home Hopevale was a beaten crew. And then, as they fell back, defeated, but game, all eyes were turned on the boys from Fenton. Never for an instant did Putnam falter; such a stroke as he was setting had not been seen on the river for many and many a year. And strive as Clinton would, they fell back, inch by inch, foot by foot, and the finish but two hundred yards away. Now the bows of the shells were even, now for an instant Clinton showed again in the lead, and then, with one final effort, the Fenton shell leaped forward again and again. A wild burst of whistles, shrieking horns, shouting hundreds on the shore, and by a quarter boat length, the Fenton crew had won.
Half an hour later, Putnam was riding home with his friends, tired, exhausted, but happy as a boy could be. "Well, old man," Dick said to him, "I'm not going to drown you. You did what you said you'd do. The last half-mile; that's where you fixed 'em."
Putnam nodded. "Thank goodness," he said, "for once I rowed just the race I meant to. I couldn't have beaten that time a second for a million dollars. And, golly, wasn't it close? I don't see how we did it. But we did. Three points apiece, and only the Pentathlon left. Dick, old man, the rest of us have done our darndest. And now it's your turn; it's up to you."
It was nearing sunset on Friday, the fourteenth of June; the Pentathlon was scheduled for ten o'clock on the following day. Dick Randall, dressed in his street clothes, but with his spiked shoes on his feet, stood, hammer in hand, listening to McDonald's final words of explanation and advice. McDonald's protégé, Joe, the little French Canadian, lay stretched on the grass, near the edge of the field, looking on.
It was a bright, clear evening, and the sun, now almost level with the horizon, smote blindingly across the field. McDonald shifted his position to escape its glare. "Now then, Dick," he said, "just one more try, to be sure we've got it. That's all I'm going to let you take. We'll run no risk of damaging that ankle of yours again."
"Oh, the ankle's all right," Dick answered. "I honestly couldn't feel in better shape. And you don't know what a load it takes off my mind to have the hammer coming right at last. It makes me feel as if I really had something of a show."
McDonald nodded. "Of course, you have a show," he answered. "Now take your try, and remember the two things I've been telling you! Pull away from it, all the time, as if you were hauling tug-of-war on a rope; and don't start to turn too quick. But when you do start, spin fast, and the rest will come by itself. And if you don't throw within ten feet of Dave Ellis to-morrow, I'm a liar."
Dick took his stand within the circle, and made ready for his trial. After weeks of disappointment, there had finally come a day when the whole theory of the double turn had worked itself out satisfactorily in his brain, and had remained there, so that for the past fortnight he had kept his form, and had steadily increased the distance of his throws. Yet McDonald, although a great believer in light work before a competition, knew from experience how easily the knack with the hammer may be lost, and while he had made Dick stop his running and jumping, he had kept him at light practice with the weight, taking half a dozen throws a day, until his pupil had acquired a method that was almost mechanical in its certainty. Now he found little to criticize as Dick spun around quickly and smoothly, keeping well within the circle, and sending the missile far down the field. He nodded approval. "All right," he called, "that's enough. We'll stop right there. Let's put the tape on it."
While they were measuring, Joe, from his position near the fence, happened to glance into the woods beyond the field, and having looked once, he seemed to take no further interest in the hammer throwers, but lay still, and without appearing to do so, kept a watchful eye on the spot of light which had gleamed from the branches of the big oak tree on the border of the wood. The last rays of the sunset streamed gloriously across the field; in answer, flash after flash came sparkling from the oak; and then the sun dipped behind the hills, and the soft shadow of the twilight crept downward toward the town.
Dick and McDonald, talking earnestly together, started to leave the field. At the corner of the wood, Dick turned, gazing out at the darkening west. "Fine day to-morrow, I guess, all right," he said.
"Yes," McDonald assented, "it looks like it. And we're going to have you in shape to do a good performance, Dick. Wait till you've eaten the steak I've got for you. That's going to put the muscle on. It'll mean a foot in the hammer, I know."
Dick laughed. "Well, you were good to invite me to stay," he answered. "I told Mr. Fenton we had a few last things to talk over, and that I'd come back after supper. And he said that would be all right. Now, about that high jump--"
They walked on toward the cottage. As they passed the angle of the woods, Joe, who had been walking along behind them, hurried up to McDonald, spoke a few quick words to him in an undertone, and darted away among the trees. Dick looked after him in surprise. "What's struck the kid?" he asked.
McDonald shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know myself," he answered, "he takes queer notions sometimes. Something, he said, about a big bird in a tree. But he's all right. He's a smart youngster, and he knows the woods like a book. He'll be back by supper-time."
They walked on again, still discussing the all-absorbing topic of the morrow's meet. In the meantime, Joe's little figure was flitting onward through the woods, slipping silently from tree to tree, from time to time stopping to listen, until finally, ahead of him, he heard the murmur of voices. Dropping quickly on his hands and knees, he crept forward through the underbrush. Then, reaching the edge of a little clearing, he peered cautiously through the bushes, and saw before him the figures of two men, standing talking together in the fading light. One of them was slight and dark, and fashionably dressed, and as Joe saw the pair of field-glasses slung over his shoulder, his eyes gleamed, and he gave a quick little nod to himself, as if now sure of something which he had only suspected before. The other man was short, broad, powerful, his thick chest and long arms suggesting a strength far above the average. It was he who was speaking, and Joe strained his ears to listen to every word.
"I don't like it," he was saying; "the whole thing's too big a risk. You're safe, I guess, if you play it straight. Ellis is going to win."
"No, he isn't going to win," the dapper young man replied. "I've climbed that cursed tree every afternoon for the last week, and I know how far Randall's getting that hammer, and I tell you again that, barring accidents, he's going to lick Ellis on the show-down. It will be close, but Randall wins."
His companion grunted. "Humph," he said, "this Dave Ellis must be a beaut. He makes you lots of bother. First he loses two hundred to you at poker, and then he cries baby, and says he can't pay, and then he puts you on to this athletic business, to get square, and now at the last minute, when your money's on, it turns out you've backed the wrong man. Don't blame you for being a little worked up. That comes close to being what I should call a pretty raw deal."
"No," the younger man answered, "hardly that. Ellis meant all right. He thought he could win. He thinks now he can win. But he can't. I'm sure of it. Because, as long as I've got five hundred dollars on him, I've taken pains to find out how things stand. He can beat Johnson, all right, but he can't beat Randall. The men I got my money up with, were pretty wise guys--they had the tip from McDonald, I believe. Anyway, it's too late to hedge, and so--I wrote you. And, as I tell you, it's a hundred dollars in your pocket, and as easy as breaking sticks. So don't go back on me now."
The older man appeared to hesitate. "I don't like it much," he said again, then added, "When do you mean to pull it off?"
"Right away," answered the other. "I meant to do it later to-night, but now I find he's going to stop at McDonald's for supper, and then walk back. It's a straight road, and a lonely one. There's a patch of woods about half-way home. It's easy. We've got the team. And there's no harm done to any one. You're the gainer, and so am I, and so is young Dave. The whole thing's no more than a joke, except that it means five hundred dollars to me, and five hundred dollars is money, these times. So let's get going."
Still his companion hesitated. "Here's two things I want to know," he said at length; "first, where do I take him?"
"Smith's old barn," answered the other promptly; "pleasant and retired health resort. No bad neighbors. Quiet and peaceful. Keep him till about noon to-morrow, and then let him stray back any way you please. Oh, the thing's a cinch. I almost hate to do it. It's too easy. But, as I say, I need the money."
"Oh, yes, it's all a cinch," grumbled the older man, "where I do the work, and you do the heavy looking on. It's always easy for the fellow that's superintending. But now look here. Here's question number two. Suppose Randall doesn't show up to-morrow, at ten o'clock, what happens then? Won't they postpone the whole darn business? I'm not going to live in Smith's old barn for ever, you know. I'm not as strong for this rest-cure idea as you seem to think I am. I like some action for mine."
His companion smiled. "You don't seem to give me any credit for working out this scheme," he complained. "I thought of the chance of their postponing it, the first thing, so I asked a lot of innocent questions of Dave, and found out there wasn't any danger in that direction. They make a lot of fuss over this athletic business, you know, just as if it really amounted to something. And one of the 'points of honor,' as Dave calls 'em, is never to postpone. Kind of 'play or pay' idea. They've had a base-ball game in a rainstorm, and a foot-ball game in a blizzard, and once they tried to row a boat race in half a gale of wind, and swamped all three shells. Oh, no, if Randall isn't there, they'll go ahead without him; that's all there is to that. He can explain afterward, but it's going to sound so fishy, they'll think he's lying. It isn't bad, really, the whole plan. Hullo, what's that?"
At the edge of the clearing, a twig snapped sharply. Joe, in his eagerness to hear all that was being said, had crept nearer and nearer, and now the accident nearly betrayed him. Both men listened intently, and Joe hugged the ground, hardly daring to breathe. "Guess 'twasn't anything," said the older man, at last. "Don't believe these woods is very densely populated. Well, let's get out. We want to be in time," and a moment later Joe heard their footsteps growing fainter and fainter in the distance.
For an instant or two, he thought hard. He did not understand all that he had heard, but the main points in the scheme were clear enough to his mind. He must warn Dick at once, before it was too late. And rising to his feet, he started to run. Yet his very haste proved his undoing. It had grown dark. The woods, even by daylight, were hard to traverse; and now, in his hurry and excitement, he momentarily bore away too far to the right, and missed his way. Then, striving to make up for lost time, he became more and more confused; and finally, catching his foot in a clinging vine, at the top of a little ravine, he pitched forward, half fell, half rolled, down the slope, struck his head violently against some hard substance at the bottom, and lay still, his face upturned to the sky, over his forehead a little trickling stream of blood.
An hour later, Dick came out of McDonald's cottage. "Well, we've got everything straight now," he said, "and you'll be there tomorrow. Hopevale Oval, ten o'clock sharp."
McDonald nodded. "I'll be there," he answered, "and remember my words, Dick; you're going to win. Good night, and good luck."
He watched Randall's form vanish in the darkness; then turned his face toward the wood. "Oh, Joe," he called, "supper's ready," and then again, more loudly, "Oh, Joe," but no answer came back to him, and with a puzzled look on his face, he reëntered the cottage.
Dick walked leisurely along through the gloom of the summer night. He felt happy, knowing that he was in the very pink of condition, and now that his chance to do something for the school had really come, he was determined to meet the crisis as gamely and as resolutely as his classmates on the crew had done. Far away, in the distance, the lights of the school shone out across the fields. He gave a sigh of anticipation, feeling alive in every nerve and muscle; fit to do battle for his very life.
Half-way home, he entered the patch of woods which bordered the road, for some little distance, on either hand. And then suddenly he gave a start of surprise, for midway through the thicket, a dark figure loomed up ahead of him, advancing through the gloom. In spite of himself, Dick felt a thrill of uneasiness, but the stranger hailed him cordially enough. "Beg pardon," he said, "but have you a match about you? My pipe's gone out."
Dick moved to one side, to let the man pass, his muscles on the alert to make a dash for liberty, if the need should come. "Sorry," he answered, "I don't carry 'em--"
He got no further. Suddenly, even as he became conscious that the man was still advancing, a brawny arm was thrown about his neck from behind; his head was jerked violently backward; he choked and gasped for breath; and then, before he could struggle or utter a cry, he was gagged, bound, and lying helpless as a log, was borne swiftly away down the road.
The following morning, at seven o'clock, Mr. Fenton heard a hurried knock at his study door. "Come in," he called, and Harry Allen hastily entered, his face pale. "Mr. Fenton," he said, "here's trouble. I just went into Dick Randall's room, and he's not there. His bed hasn't been slept in. What do you suppose can have happened to him?"
Mr. Fenton looked at him in surprise. "I can't imagine, Harry," he replied. "He told me, yesterday, he would take supper with McDonald, and come home shortly afterward. He might have stayed there overnight, I suppose. Still, that's not like Randall. He would have telephoned me from the village, I think. It seems curious, doesn't it? I'll send to McDonald's at once, and we'll see. Will you ask Peter to slip the mare into the buggy, please; and you go with him, Harry, and show him the way? I don't doubt you'll find Dick there."
It was an hour later when Allen reëntered the room, the lack of good news showing in his face. "He wasn't there," he cried, "and what's stranger still, McDonald wasn't there either, or the boy. What can it mean, Mr. Fenton? You don't suppose McDonald--"
Mr. Fenton finished the sentence for him. "Would have caused Dick to vanish?" he said. "I don't know, Harry. Your guess is as good as mine. Probably it's some very simple circumstance which we're not bright enough to see. But I confess I'm puzzled. I shall go down to the village directly after breakfast, and see what I can discover there. But I've no doubt everything's all right. McDonald and Dick must be together, wherever they are."
Allen paused, with his hand on the knob of the door. "Shall I tell the fellows, sir?" he asked.
Mr. Fenton deliberated. "I think not," he said at last. "We don't wish a tempest in a teapot. You know what the newspapers are, these days. No, I think you'd better say nothing, for the present. Perhaps Dick will turn up at Hopevale, if he doesn't come back here before then. No, I think, on the whole, I wouldn't alarm the boys," and Allen, nodding, left the room.
At the selfsame hour that this conversation was taking place at the school, Dick Randall sat moodily in a chair, in what had been the harness-room of Jim Smith's big barn, now long disused, and falling to decay. The gag had been taken from his mouth, but his arms and legs were still bound. Opposite him sat his captor, the brawny thick-set man whom Joe had seen in the woods on the previous night. He had coaxed a fire into an unwilling start in the old, rusty stove, and was laboring hard to produce a dish of coffee in an old tin dipper. A couple of sandwiches lay on the floor beside him. Finally, with the fire going to his satisfaction, he turned to Dick. "Well, now," he observed, "I call this doing pretty well. Real nice and sociable like. Two regular old pals, we're getting to be. You've promised not to holler, which is sensible, because no one would hear you if you did, so you've got your jaws free to eat; and if you'd only promise not to try to get away, I'd untie them arms of yours, and you'd be as fine as a fiddle. Come now, give me your word, and I'll cut that rope in a minute. That shows what a trust I've got in you."
Dick made no answer. His face was drawn and anxious, there were dark circles under his eyes; he was thinking desperately, as he had thought all through the long summer night. Some means of escape he must find--and yet--how was it possible? And then, even as he recklessly considered the giving and breaking of his word, and the chance of a struggle with his jailer, the man pulled his watch from his pocket, and yawned.
"Ten minutes past eight," he said. "Just a little longer, and them games will be going on, over at Hopevale. Too bad you can't see 'em; I guess they'll be a fine sight. They tell me this Dave Ellis is a likely man at all such things as that. I suppose most likely he'll beat."
Dick did not deign a reply. In their long, solitary sojourn together, he had become accustomed to his captor's ideas of humor. So that now, he did not even permit his eyes to meet those of his tormentor, but gazed steadily past him, toward the door of the carriage house. "Ten minutes past eight," he reflected; "it is too late--nothing could help me now."
And then, like lightning from a clear sky, came the climax to all this startling series of events. For even as he looked, slowly and cautiously he beheld the door of the harness-room slide back, and the next instant there appeared in the doorway the figure of Duncan McDonald, a revolver in his outstretched hand.
The look of amazement in Dick's eyes must have warned his jailer, for he wheeled sharply, to find himself looking into the muzzle of McDonald's pistol. Then came the quick command, "Hands up, lively," and as he reluctantly obeyed, McDonald called sharply, "All right, Joe. Come on. Go through his pockets, now."
'Hands up, lively,' McDonald called
Dick started with surprise and pity, as the little French Canadian limped forward into the room. His face was deathly pale, and streaked and matted with blood. Yet he went resolutely at his task, and a moment later drew out from the man's pocket a big revolver, and handed it to McDonald. The latter smiled grimly. "Now cut Dick loose," he directed, and Joe quickly obeyed. With a long sigh of relief, Randall managed to struggle to his feet, walking haltingly around till the thickened blood began once more to stir into life. McDonald motioned to the door. "Hurry, Dick," he said, "Joe will show you. Down the path. I've got a team. And food, and a set of my running things. Hurry, now. I'll be with you in a minute. I'm going to keep a watch on your friend here, till you give a yell to show you're ready to start."
Fifteen minutes later they had left the woods and were speeding down the road toward Hopevale. Dick's face was transfigured. With every turn of the wheels, he was coming back to himself. A chance was left him after all.
"How did it all happen, Duncan?" he asked, and hurriedly and disjointedly McDonald told him the tale.
"Joe saw something shining up in a tree, last night," he said; "thought it was queer. Went to investigate. Man had been up there, watching us with a field-glass. Joe stumbled on him, talking with another fellow--this chap that had you tied up there in the barn. Joe can't tell me the whole thing, but I gather they had something in for you, about the Pentathlon. I guess they wanted Ellis to win. So Joe heard 'em say they were going to get you, and carry you off to Smith's old barn. He started home to put us wise, and as bad luck would have it, he pitched down a gully, and cracked his head open. I went looking for him about ten o'clock, and I was in the woods all night. Never found him till five this morning. He'd come to, poor little rascal, and was trying to crawl home, but he was so weak he could hardly stir. But he got out his story, and you can bet I did some quick thinking.
"First, I was going up to town, to telephone the school, and see if you were all right. And then I thought, if I did that, it might waste too much time, and if things had gone wrong, I might be too late, after all. So I went back to the house, got together my running things and the grub you've just been eating, and then hustled off to my nearest neighbor's, and did a little burglar act. This is his favorite colt we're driving; I knew this fellow could eat up a dozen miles in jig time, and so--I took him. The old man had gone up to town with a load of garden truck. His wife tried to stop me taking the horse, but I brandished my revolver at her, and she ran. I suppose she thought I was crazy, And then Joe piloted me to the barn--I'd never have found it by myself in a hundred years--so here we are." He pulled out his watch. "Ten minutes of nine, and ten miles to go. We're all right on time. But you must feel pretty stiff, Dick; I don't know whether you can do yourself justice or not."
Dick stretched himself. "Oh, I'm limbering up a little," he answered, "I think a good rub will help a lot. And I don't feel tired. The excitement, I suppose. I guess I'll last through, all right. But oh, I'm grateful to you and Joe, Duncan; thank Heaven, you came when you did. If I'd missed the Pentathlon, I'd never have got over it in the world."
McDonald smiled, the smile of a man looking back over his own boyhood. "We get over a lot of things, Dick, in a lifetime," he answered, "but I know just how you feel. I guess Joe did all he could to square up with you for helping him, and I'm mighty glad we got there in time."
Doctor Merrifield, the elderly, gray-haired principal of Hopevale, turned with a smile of satisfaction to his guest. "A record day, Mr. Graham," he said, "and a record crowd. I think we may mutually congratulate ourselves."
The head master of Clinton nodded in reply. "Indeed we may, Doctor," he answered. "Of course the fact that it's graduation week: has something to do with it, but even then, I have never seen a gathering like this, in the history of the schools."
There was good reason for their words. Mid-June had made its most graceful bow to the world. A warm sun shone down over Hopevale Oval; a cool breeze blew pleasantly across the field. The track itself had never looked so well. It had been rolled, scraped, re-rolled once more; the whitewashed lines had been neatly marked at start and finish; the lanes for the hundred freshly staked out. Altogether, the track keeper had done his work to perfection, and a man beaten in the Pentathlon, whatever other reason he might have given for his defeat, could scarcely have complained of the conditions under which he was competing.
Equally good were the arrangements on the field. The high-jump path was hard and smooth as a floor; a new cross bar was stretched across the standards; a dozen extra ones lay ready at hand, in case of accident to the one in use. The ring for the shot put was in first-class shape; two shots, one iron, one lead, lay close by. Three or four hammer rings were clearly marked on the smooth, closely-cropped green turf. The most critical old-timer who ever wore a shoe could not have found fault with the preparations for the meet.
And many a man, indeed, who had been famous in his day, sat in the rows of seats which surrounded the Oval, eager to see the final contest for the cup, whose possession meant so much to the school victorious in this hard and well-fought fight. Fathers, uncles, elder brothers, small boys looking forward to the day when they, in turn, would take their places in the family procession, and come to Clinton, Fenton or Hopevale, as the case might be; all were present in the stands. Nor was it, by any means, a gathering of men and boys alone. Mothers, aunts, sisters, most of whom knew little of athletics, and had but the haziest idea of all that was going forward, lent, none the less, a charm of bright dresses and brighter faces, to the scene. And though the games were held at Hopevale, it was no mere local crowd of spectators which had assembled to watch them. The colors of the home school were naturally enough in the ascendant, but train after train had brought its cheering followers of the two rival academies, and the red and black of Clinton, and the crimson of Fenton, vied with the Hopevale blue.
Doctor Merrifield looked across the track. "Here comes our friend Fenton," he observed, "and evidently in a hurry, too."
Mr. Fenton walked rapidly up to them, his face puzzled and anxious. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said. "I find myself involved in a most unaccountable mystery. I don't suppose either of you has heard any word of Randall, our entry in the Pentathlon?"
Both of his colleagues gazed at him in astonishment. "Are you serious?" said Mr. Graham, while the doctor said, "You don't mean to tell us he isn't here. Why, it only lacks five minutes to ten."
Mr. Fenton sighed. "I can't understand it," he said, "and I can't help being a little bit worried. I've notified the authorities, but haven't heard a single word of him since yesterday afternoon. It's a most extraordinary thing. And apart from my anxiety for Randall, it seems hard to say good-by to our chances for the cup. However, the fortunes of war--"
Mr. Graham interrupted him. "Why, we don't want anything like that to happen," he said, "we'll waive our rule, I'm sure. Won't we, Doctor? We can postpone the meet for a time."
Mr. Fenton made an eloquent gesture toward the crowded stands. "I couldn't ask it," he said decidedly. "You're very kind to suggest it, Graham, and I appreciate it. But if the positions were reversed, I shouldn't expect you to ask the favor of me. It would never do to interrupt the order of exercises, and disappoint a gathering of this size. It would be a reflection, it seems to me, on our ability to conduct our schools. No, I thank you, but, as I said before, it's the fortune of war. Your boys must fight it out between themselves. I suppose some day this will all be explained--"
An outburst of Hopevale cheers broke in on him. Dave Ellis, looking in the very top-notch of condition, was walking leisurely across the field. A moment later, Johnson's lithe figure emerged from the dressing-room, and Clinton applauded in their turn. And then, even as they stood listening to the tumult, they were aware of a growing confusion at the entrance to the field, out of which presently emerged two rather disheveled looking figures, making toward the locker building at a hurried pace. At the same instant broke forth a roar from the Fenton section, "Randall, Randall, Randall!" and Mr. Fenton, taking an abrupt leave of his associates, started across the field, as fast as his legs could carry him. "Thank Heaven," he muttered to himself, "nothing serious has happened to him. But what can the trouble have been?"
He found Randall hastily dressing. Dick looked up at him with what was meant for a smile. "Can't explain now, Mr. Fenton," he said hurriedly. "It wasn't my fault. I'm lucky to be here. If it hadn't been for McDonald and Joe, I shouldn't be. But I'll tell you the whole story later. I've got just time for my rub-down now."
For five minutes, McDonald's skilful hands worked over the stiffened muscles, and as Dick jogged across to the start, he felt that his speed and spring were in some measure returning. Yet the hundred yards was disappointing. Johnson ran first, and moved down the track like a race-horse, traveling in first-class form, and making the distance in ten and three-fifths. Ellis ran second, and did eleven flat. Dick, a little unnerved by all he had been through, made a false start--something most unusual for him--and was set back a yard. Then, in his anxiety not to commit the same fault a second time, he got away poorly, and finished in the slowest time of the three--eleven and one-fifth. It was excellent scoring, for a start, and Johnson was credited with eighty-three points, Ellis with seventy-five and Dick with seventy-one.
With the shot put, the lead changed. Johnson, considering his lighter weight, performed splendidly, making an even thirty-six feet. Dick found that his stiffness did not bother him nearly so much as it had done in the dash, and made his best put of the year, thirty-eight, nine. But Ellis surpassed himself, and on his last attempt, broke the league record, with a drive of forty-one, two. His seventy-two points loomed large, by the side of Dick's sixty and Johnson's forty-seven, and the score-board showed:
Next, the high jump was called, and all three boys kept up the same good work. There was small reason, indeed, why they should not have been at their best. School spirit was rampant; it was to watch them that these cheering hundreds had crowded the field; every successful jump, from the lowest height of all, was applauded to the echo. Ellis, as was expected, was the first to fail, but he managed to clear five feet, two, and added fifty-four points to his score. Dick, a little handicapped by the strain of the preceding night, could feel that his muscles were not quite at their best, yet his long period of careful training had put him in good shape, and helped out by the excitement of the competition, he finally cleared five feet, eight. Johnson did an inch better, and only just displaced the bar at five feet, ten, scoring seventy-seven points to Dick's seventy-four. The three competitors were now practically tied, and volley after volley of cheers rang out across the field from every section of the crowd.
The record was going to be broken, not by one man alone, but by all three. So much was evident, and the crowd awaited the hurdle race with the most eager expectancy. Dick ran first, and finished in seventeen and two-fifths; Ellis, his heavy build telling against him, in spite of his efforts, could do no better than eighteen, two, and then Johnson electrified the crowd by coming through, true and strong, in sixteen, four. His eighty-four points put him well in the lead, while Randall's seventy-three gave him a clear gain over Ellis, who, with fifty-eight, now brought up the rear.
And yet, in spite of the score, Hopevale was jubilant. For the one remaining event was the hammer throw, where Ellis was supreme, and here they expected to see their champion wipe out his opponents' lead, and finish a winner, with plenty to spare.
Each contestant was allowed three throws, and on the first round it seemed as though the predictions of the home man's admirers were coming true. Johnson threw one hundred and twenty-two feet and seven inches; and then Ellis, taking his stand confidently inside the circle, made a beautiful effort of one hundred and fifty-nine feet. McDonald figured hastily in his score book, and came up to Randall. "Don't be scared, Dick," he said, "one hundred and forty-five feet, and you'll still be ahead of him. And that's only a practice throw for you now."
Dick nodded. And yet, although he kept his own counsel, he knew only too well that the worry and anxiety of his long night's captivity were at last beginning to make themselves felt. His head felt heavy; his legs weak; he doubted whether he could make the hundred and forty-five. And then, taking his turn, his worst fears were realized. He made a fair throw, indeed, staying well inside the circle, but there was little dash behind it, and when the scorer announced, "One hundred and thirty-eight eleven," Dick knew that Ellis was in the lead.
In the midst of the Hopevale cheering, Johnson took his second throw, and improved on his first trial by a couple of feet. McDonald shook his head. "He's out of it," he said. "A great little man, too, but not heavy enough for all-round work. It's you or Ellis, now, Dick. Johnson won't bother either of you for first."
Dick nodded. Ellis made ready for his second throw with the greatest care. There was little to criticize in his form. And backed by his great strength, the hammer seemed scarcely more than a toy in his hands. As the missile went hurtling through the air, the cheers redoubled. Even from the spectators' seats it was easy to see that he had bettered his previous try, and soon the scorer shouted, "One hundred and sixty-five feet, one inch."
McDonald whistled. "He's a good man with the weights," he admitted with reluctance; then figured again. "Dick," he said, "you'll have to get in one good one. You've got to fetch a hundred and fifty feet, if you're going to win. Don't stiffen up now. Keep cool, and think it's only practice. You've done it for me. You can do it now."
Dick walked forward, and picked up the hammer for his second try. Out from the grandstand came the Fenton cheer, and then, at the end, his name "Randall, Randall, Randall!" thrice repeated. Where other stimulants would have failed, this one was successful. Dick felt his muscles grow tense as steel. He thought of Putnam, and the race on the river. "Be game," he whispered to himself, under his breath, and stepped forward into the ring, his brain clear, his nerves under control. Once, twice, thrice, he swung the hammer around, his head, and then, with splendid speed, turned and let it go. Clearly, he had improved on his former throw. The measurers pulled the tape tight, and then the announcer called, "One hundred and forty-nine, three."
McDonald calculated hurriedly; then gave a little exclamation of astonishment. "A tie," he cried; "that puts you just even, and one more throw apiece. Three hundred and forty-seven points each. A tie; that's what it is."
Near Ellis' side stood a slender, dark young man, who had watched Dick's appearance on the field with an expression of utter amazement. Although the day was warm, he had worn, all through the games, a long, loose coat, of fashionable cut, and now he crowded closer to Ellis' side. "Pick it up, when I drop it, Dave," he whispered. "It's your only show. You can't beat one hundred and sixty-five without it."
A moment later he walked away. And Ellis, stooping, put his hand on a hammer apparently identical with the two which had been so carefully weighed and measured before the games had begun. He held it uncertainly, as if not overjoyed at his burden. Once he turned, and looked imploringly at the man who had spoken to him. The man frowned back at him savagely, and Ellis sighed, as if persuaded against his will.
And now Johnson made his last throw. He tried desperately, and improved his record to one hundred and thirty feet. But his chance was gone, and he knew it, taking his defeat gamely enough, with a smile and shrug of his shoulders. He had done his best; it was not good enough; that was all.
"Ellis; last try," called the clerk of the course. Ellis walked quickly forward, and got into position. Dick, watching him, seemed to see a new power and skill in the way in which his rival swung, and when he delivered the weight, Dick felt his heart sink like lead. Out, out, it sailed, as though it would never stop. Hopevale was cheering itself hoarse. It looked like a record throw. And finally the announcer, scarlet with excitement, cried, in the midst of the hush that followed his first words, "Mr. Ellis throws one hundred and seventy-three feet, eight and a quarter inches, a new record for the league."
Dick turned to McDonald, but McDonald was no longer at his side. He was striding away down the field. The man who brought in the hammer, after each throw, was just starting back with it, when a slight, dapper fellow accosted him. "I'll carry that in for you," he said pleasantly, "I'm going that way," and the man, thanking him, gladly enough relinquished his burden.
Face to face came the kind-hearted stranger and Duncan McDonald. McDonald reached out his hand. "I'll thank you for a look at that weapon," he said grimly.
The stranger looked at him blankly. "What do you mean?" he asked.
McDonald grasped the wire handle. "Just exactly what I say," he rejoined. "You're a wise guy, Alec, but you're up against it this time. Hand over now; I haven't forgotten old times."
The young man forced a smile, and then, as McDonald wrenched the hammer from his grasp, he turned and made off across the field, swearing fluently under his breath.
McDonald hurried back to where the judges were standing, arriving just as Dick was making ready for his last try. "One minute, gentlemen," he called; "I wish to protest Mr. Ellis' throw, and the hammer it was made with. I don't believe the hammer is full weight."
The chief judge looked indignant. "Mr. McDonald," he said, "this is most unusual. The hammers were carefully weighed before the competition began. And were found correct. In fact, both of them were a trifle overweight."
"But you didn't weigh this one," McDonald insisted. "This one has been rung in on you. I must ask you to weigh it, please."
Somewhat grudgingly, the judge complied; then started in astonishment. He was a partisan of Hopevale, but he was an honest man, and he knew his duty. "Mr. Announcer," he said quickly; "say at once, please, that there was a mistake in Mr. Ellis' last throw; that an accident to the hammer will necessitate giving him another trial." Then, turning to the officials, he added, "This is exceedingly unfortunate, gentlemen; this hammer weighs but ten pounds and three-quarters. Does any one know how it got here?"
No one answered, and Ellis stepped forward to take his last throw, this time with a hammer of correct weight. His face was troubled; his former confidence seemed lacking, and his try fell well short of one hundred and sixty feet. And then Dick came forward in his turn. The controversy over the light hammer had given him just the rest he needed; he made ready for his throw with the utmost coolness, and got away a high, clean try, that looked good all the way. There was the beginning of a cheer and then a hush, as the announcer called, "One hundred and fifty-two, five."
The cheering began again, yet the result was so close that every one waited breathlessly for the official posting of the score. A moment's delay, and then up it went.
And then came the avalanche of wildly cheering spectators. Putnam, Allen, Brewster and Lindsay were first at Dick's side, and it was on their shoulders that he was borne across the field, a little overcome, now that the strain was over, with everything appearing a trifle dream-like and unreal, yet with three thoughts mingling delightfully in his mind: that he had won, won in spite of obstacles, fair and clean; that the Pentathlon shield was his, and best and most glorious of all, that the challenge cup would come to Fenton--to stay.
Thus, through the shouting and the cheering, he was carried along in triumph, and in the midst of it all, one other thought still came to him--the best thought, perhaps, that can ever come to a boy's mind. Hopevale Oval had vanished, and in spirit he was a thousand miles away. "I wonder," he said to himself, with a sudden thrill of happiness, "I wonder what they'll say at home."