McGregor's jaw dropped as he read the notice. Then in amazement his eye traveled down the long list of signatures till it fell on his own.
"It is sure enough my signature and no forgery. But when in the name of Mike did I do it?" He gazed in helpless wonder at Marjorie who had accompanied him to the companionway.
"Seems to me I've seen that list before," said Miss Hasbrouck. "It looks like one that was attached to a letter I received to-day."
McGregor stepped up to the board, scrutinized the subscription paper closely, then took out the thumb tacks which secured it to the board itself. "Look," he said, displaying the back of the paper. "The Codfish has put one over on us. This list has been very neatly pasted onto the bottom of the Widows and Orphans Fund subscription paper, and as both were written on ship's paper the deception was a clever one."
"O, my, the wretch!" said Marjorie.
"The young runt," quoth McGregor in high dudgeon, "wait till I get at him!"
But he did not get at the Codfish just then for that individual kept himself out of sight until the next morning. The story went the rounds of the ship as might naturally be expected, and not a few of the team members, seeing that the Codfish had made a neat shift of the joke onto theirown heads, paid up their alleged subscriptions so that the Fund was a gainer in the end.
Sad to relate, however, the standing of the Codfish with the Hasbrouck family was gone, never to return. His best efforts next morning failed to draw even a look of recognition from Marjorie's bright eyes as she passed and repassed him during the deck promenade, tripping along gaily between two members of the team. Once he thought he caught the expression as she passed: "That horrid boy." From Mrs. Hasbrouck he could only draw a frigid nod.
"And that's all the thanks I get for boosting the old fund," said the Codfish to himself. "Well, never mind, women are fickle. I'll have no more of them in my whole life," and he went his way whistling a merry tune.
That afternoon as the ship was passing up Southampton Water the Codfish found Frank leaning on the rail watching the beautiful and ever-shifting panorama opening before him.
"Say, Frank, I guess I'll not go on to Paris."
"Changed your mind?" There was a hint of laughter in Frank's voice.
"Yes, I think I ought to stick around for thepractice and the games, don't you? Doesn't seem quite right to desert now."
"Good boy," said Frank. "I think you'll find England more congenial than Paris. It wouldn't be right to leave us anyway."
"That's what I think, too. I'll stick with the bunch."
The team with all its paraphernalia went through to London that night, and the next morning took train for Brighton about fifty miles south on the English Channel, where all were quartered at the Grand Hotel on the Esplanade facing the channel. Training quarters were established on the grounds of the Brighton Athletic Club which had been generously offered to the visitors by the Board of Governors.
It was an eager lot of athletes that tumbled out of the tally-ho at the Club that morning, for the trainers insisted that the practice should begin at once, and the men themselves, cooped up as they had been for a week, were no less anxious to get to work than the trainers were to have them.
Several scores of people, attracted to Brighton by the news that the Yale and Harvard teams would train there for the week previous to the match with Oxford and Cambridge, were in attendance when the Americans got into action."A likely looking lot," was the English comment.
After a light work-out, Armstrong and McGregor were called to the jumping pit.
"Try a few," said Trainer Black, "but make it easy and be careful you don't twist your ankles. We're badly enough off as it is."
After measuring out the runway and taking half a dozen practice runs, McGregor made a leap of something over 21 feet on his first try. Frank followed, but did not show anything impressive. Again he tried, but whether from the enforced idleness on the steamer or from physical condition, again fell far short of the jump he expected to make.
"You're not getting any lift at all," said Black, coming up at that moment. "Shoot high in the air when you strike that take-off."
Frank attempted to follow instructions, but his legs felt heavy and dead. He knew very well without information from the trainer that he failed to get his height. The more he jumped, the worse he got, but persisted until Trainer Black said: "That's enough, now. Jog around the track a couple of times and go in. You are off to-day but I guess it will be all right to-morrow."
But the next day, while there was a little improvement in his distance, Frank was far behind his American performances. McGregor jumped consistently at 22 feet and a half. The strange ground did not seem to bother him in any way, while with Frank either the straight runway, the different conditions of air or the week of partial idleness on shipboard had played havoc with his skill. Naturally, he began to worry, and this had its effect in keeping him back.
On the third day on English soil the whole team was taken up to London to the Queen's Club grounds so that the athletes might have an opportunity to try out the track. It proved to be a faster and better track than the one they were working on at Brighton and everyone was well pleased with the result of the day's work. Frank had improved a little on his jumps, but was still inches behind his Harvard mate. Several times he had succeeded in getting a good spring, but failed to hold the distance. It did not make him feel any happier to note that the English writers, after watching the performances of the two American jumpers, had counted them out of the contest entirely.
"Vare," wrote one sporting critic, "will haveno trouble in winning the broad jump for the American representatives are not in his class. It is unfortunate that their best jumper was unable to come across the water because of an accident in practice a few days before the Americans were to sail. But even with Hotchkiss, the injured Yale man, at his best he could not expect to measure up to the great Oxford jumper who has been doing 23 feet and over, consistently in practice, and has never yet been extended to his full limit to win in any event he has entered. With the broad jump a foregone conclusion for the Oxford-Cambridge team, the chances seem to favor the English athletes to carry off the meet."
Frank laid down the paper. "So, they've written us off, have they? Perhaps we may fool them yet," and he ground his teeth together, resolving that if he were beaten out it would not be because he did not try. But the next day's practice on the Brighton track yielded no better results. As he was walking slowly down the runway with feelings of disgust at his poor showing, he was accosted by a tall stranger whom he had seen talking with the captain a few minutes before.
"Do you mind if I give you a word of advice?" said the newcomer.
"Certainly not. If you can show me how to get out about a foot further, I'll be the happiest jumper in the United Kingdom."
The stranger smiled. "You are too anxious about this jumping business," he said, "and you're working too hard at it. You have plenty of speed and a good spring, but you don't get high enough at the take-off. Supposing we try a little experiment."
"I'll try anything," said Frank, eagerly.
"I used to jump a little myself," said the stranger, "and my trouble at first was very like what yours is now. I couldn't get up. So I tried an experiment which I'm going to try on you now." Stepping to the side of the track he picked up a high hurdle and placed it about four feet behind the jumping-block, in the pit itself. "Now," he continued, "I want you to clear the top of that hurdle by six inches or more. At your highest point of flight bring your shoulders and arms well forward, so you will hold all your distance when you strike. Try it."
Frank went back the full length of the runway, started at an easy lope and gathering full speedfifty feet from the end of his run struck the block squarely, and sprang high into the air. He had the feeling that it was a good jump but was not prepared for what the measuring tape showed—22 feet, 8 inches.
"That's better," said the tall stranger. "But I want you to go even higher than that. Clear the hurdle by a foot or more if you can. Get your greatest speed right at the take-off andthinkhigh as well as go high."
Again Frank rushed down the runway and leaped with all his power, clearing the hurdle by a foot or more. By this time half a dozen of the members of the team were gathered by the jumping pit. Recognizing a good jump, one of them seized the tape and measured:
"Twenty-three feet, one-half inch," he sang out. "Well, maybe we have a chance for that jump yet. Good boy, Armstrong."
Twice more the stranger sent Frank down the runway and each time the jumper rose to expectations. On the last jump the tape showed 23 feet, 1½ inches.
"Now, we'll take the hurdle away, but you mustthinkit is there," continued the coach. "Have it in your mind as you come up to theblock that you are going away above the imaginary mark. Jumping is a matter of brains as much as of legs. Try it without the hurdle."
This time Frank almost equaled his former jump, and as the figures were announced, his teammates crowded around him, congratulating him.
"That's the stuff, Armstrong," said Trainer Black. "You may throw a scare into these Englishmen if you keep up that gait."
"Who is that man coaching me?" inquired Frank, a little later.
"That, didn't you know? That's Princewell, an intercollegiate champion of ours a few years back, one of the best in the business in his day."
"He certainly knew what was the matter with me," said Frank, almost beside himself with happiness. "I'd give a leg to beat Vare."
"I don't expect that," said Black, "because Vare is a great jumper, one of the best in Great Britain. If you give him a good run for his money you will have done something we will all be proud of. We can win without the broad jump if our calculations are right."
But alas for Frank's high hopes, the next day saw him below 23 feet again, and work as hemight, he fell back steadily. Without the impetus given by Princewell, who had gone to London, he could not get within six inches of his best marks of the day before. Black finally ordered him to the clubhouse. "I don't want you to put on jumping shoes again before Saturday." Saturday was the day of the games.
"But I need the practice," Frank remonstrated, "I'm just getting the knack."
"Forget it," said the trainer, "and do as I tell you. I'll take the risk. You mustn't jump again before you go into your event. And I'd advise you to keep off your feet as much as you can. Rest, rest, man. That's the best thing you can do just now."
Frank turned away heartbroken. "If I could only keep at it, I'd get the trick back. I had it yesterday and I've lost it to-day."
"Keep off my feet," grumbled Frank that night to Gleason. "Rest and keep off my feet. I wonder if he intends to have me keep my bed."
"O, you're too nervous, that's all. A little country air would be good for you. Say, by Jove, I've got an idea, rest, recreation, off your feet, on the job and all that."
"Open up, my son."
"It's this. Let's hire a motor and see some of this blooming country. I don't suppose they object to your exercising your eyes."
"I'm with you if the captain hasn't any objection. We've been sticking pretty closely around here."
"It's a monumental idea and worthy of a great brain like mine."
The captain had no objection and was indeed glad of it since he felt it would take Frank's attention from the coming games.
"And how about the motor? I'm not a bloated bondholder like you, but I'll go my halves."
"Oh, run away. I've been aching to find an excuse to spend some money round here. I know where I can get a little pippin of a machine for ten shillings the hour. Ten shillings are $2.50 our money and cheap when it includes a dinky little chauffeur with a uniform. Watch me produce!" And away the Codfish dashed down the street. In twenty minutes he was back with a snappy little, high-powered runabout painted a flaming red color. "Couldn't get a blue one," he apologized.
Frank hopped in alongside the driver, and the Codfish perched behind in the rumble seat. Fortwo hours Frank forgot entirely about the Yale-Harvard-Oxford-Cambridge track meet, and his part in it. And those who have traveled in the beautiful lanes and highways of Sussex will understand his absorption. Again in the cool of the afternoon Gleason appeared for another "personally conducted" tour, this time to the west of Brighton, along the shore road. Eye-tired from watching the moving panorama of country and town, Frank Armstrong slept, free from the regular nightmare of broad-jumping competition in which he never could quite reach his best.
The great day of the contest came around at last and found the American athletes pitched to a high degree of excitement. A final trial of the Queen's Club track had given some very satisfactory performances, which more than hinted at an American victory. Burrows, the Harvard sprinter, had run the hundred in nine and four-fifths seconds, and seemed sure of not only this event but of the two hundred and twenty as well. With these two secure, the American athletes had a clear lead in the race for victory.
"This is the great day, boys," announced Trainer Black at the breakfast table. "Train leaves for London at 10:30. Games at twoo'clock. Put all the stuff you need in your suit cases. They will go up on the train with us."
"Do we lunch in London?" asked someone.
"No, we have a bite on the train which gets to London at a little before twelve. It's a half-hour's ride in taxis from the station to the Queen's Club grounds. We won't get there much before half past twelve or a quarter to one. That'll give us plenty of time to dress and be ready for the Johnny Bulls by two o'clock."
Frank finished his packing quickly, sent his suit case down to the hotel lobby, and began to fidget around. "I'm as nervous as a cat," he said to himself. "If they had only let me keep on working I'd have been a lot better off, but this waiting, waiting bothers me to death."
"Oh, there, you little jumping jack," came the hail from the street, "come and take a ride, guaranteed last appearance before breaking the world's record."
"Can't," said Frank. "Train leaves in less than two hours. Have you packed up?"
"Packed up, no. The valet will do that. Who wants to pack suit cases a morning like this? Come on, you short-skate, come on and forget Queen's Club."
"I'll go you for an hour," said Frank, "but that's the limit. I don't want to take any chances with a busted tire five miles from nowhere."
"This machine is guaranteed bust-proof. You can trust the old reliable. It is even fool-proof."
"I'd need that assurance with you around."
"And you're coming?"
"Yes, but only for an hour."
"Don't worry, I'll have you back, hope to die if I don't."
Away shot the little runabout on the Eastbourne road. As before, the chauffeur acted as guide and pointed out various objects of interest as they spun along the smooth road. "Just down there to the east about twenty miles the way we're heading is Hastings."
"That's where William the Conqueror had his little scrap one day some moons ago, isn't it?" inquired the Codfish.
"Yes, sir, he fought a bit of a fight there, and just over to the left there is the Duke of Buccleuch's estate. And down there in the field where you see that house in the trees I was born meself, sir."
"Good for you," said the Codfish, "fine place to be born, nice open spaces; a very good pieceof judgment. And the old folks still live down on the old New Hampshire farm?"
"Yes, sir, they are living there now. I say, would you mind stopping at the door, sir? My mother's been ailing, and I'd like to see her a minute."
"Dutiful and kind-hearted son, we'll be happy to stop for you. Better still, you give me the steering wheel and we'll drive on for a mile or two and pick you up on the way back."
"Can you drive?" asked the chauffeur dubiously.
"Can I drive? Can a duck float? I've driven a six-sixty Pierce Arrow through the White Mountains, but you wouldn't know what that means. Let's see," said the irrepressible Codfish, as he slipped into the driver's seat just vacated by the chauffeur and worked the shift lever as he spoke: "First speed inside ahead, second speed outside ahead, high, outside back. Reverse, inside back. I've got you, Steve. We'll be back here in fifteen minutes. Please be waiting at the church for we haven't too many spare minutes this morning."
"Be careful, sir," called the chauffeur, "it's a heavy penalty driving without a license."
"Same thing in our country, but we're hard to catch," the Codfish shouted back over his shoulder as, with motor speeding up, he dropped into high gear and fled up the road like a red shadow.
"This is what we should have done long before this," quoth Gleason, "a chauffeur is a clog on conversation."
"Yes, but he's handy to have along under certain conditions."
The boys drove along in silence for five minutes, when Frank, with his mind on train time, said: "Better turn now, old man. We've been out nearly thirty minutes, and thirty more makes an hour, my time limit."
"You're great on mathematics. Let's go up this road through the village there to our right and out back on the main road, pick up the gent who went to visit the old folks, and then I'll drop you in dear old Brighton in some few minutes. But first let us explore a little."
"I'd rather we explored some other time," Frank remonstrated.
But the Codfish was willful. He found a road leading to the left, circled the village and came back again to a highway. "Now, let's see, wheredid we leave that chap?" he mused. "Right along here some place by the willows, wasn't it?"
Driving slowly, the boys scanned the roadside for their chauffeur, but no sight of him could they discover. "Well, it certainly was here somewhere, and if he hasn't the gumption to come back as per agreement, he can stay behind, eh, what?"
"Gleason, this doesn't look like the road we came on," said Frank, in alarm.
"Well, it's a good road, isn't it?"
"But no road is good unless it leads to Brighton. Remember your promise. That train leaves at ten-thirty and it is five minutes of ten now. And, moreover, we're lost."
"Lost, your eye! How can we be lost when I'm at the helm?" But, nevertheless, the puzzled look on the Codfish's face continued to grow deeper as the minutes passed away and nothing was seen of the chauffeur. "I say," he called to a passing farmer, "can you tell me if this is the road to Brighton?"
"Naw. Second turn to the right and then keep straight ahead."
"How far from here?"
"'Bout five mile."
"The country is saved. Now see the dust fly. Twenty minutes to do five miles. Oh, it's a cinch. That chauffeur can walk home. I'll settle."
Fifteen minutes later the Codfish drew up at the outskirts of a small village. "Is this the way to Brighton?" he inquired of a passer-by.
"ThisisBreyting," with an accent on the "is."
"What?" almost yelled the driver of the red car.
"ThisisBreyting, I tell you."
"How do you spell it?"
"B-r-e-y-t-i-n-g, Breyting."
"Oh, Lord, we want B-r-i-g-h-t-o-n, Brighton, down by the sea, where all the piers and pebbles are."
"Oh, why didn't you say so at first? Take the road to the left down about half a mile. It'll bring you down to the far end of the street that runs along the water."
"How far is it?" asked Frank in a despairing voice.
"'Bout twelve or thirteen miles."
"And fifteen minutes to do it in. This is awful!"
"Cheer up, cheer up," said the driver, making a great show of confidence which he didn't in theleast feel. "We may do it yet." Opening the throttle the car fairly leaped along the road. "It's exceeding the speed limit, but in a good cause," said the Codfish. "Lord, I hope the tires stand up."
He had hardly spoken the word when the right front shoe gave way with a loud bang. The car careened to the right sharply, crossed the shallow ditch with a lurch that nearly threw the boys out of their seats, and, finally, under control again, was steered back on to the road to fetch up with a violent jerk when the emergency brake was driven down hard.
"Well, I'm glad that's over," said the luckless Codfish, as he slipped from behind the steering wheel and hurried out in front to see what damage had been done. "Phew! we're lucky," he continued, "to be alive. If that shoe had gone and busted itself on the bridge half a mile back we would probably have been two bright little angels by now; gone and done for."
"By the looks of things, I'm done for anyway," said Frank. "We are lost some miles from Brighton and," looking at his watch, "the train starts in just seven minutes."
"Maybe they'll wait for you."
"Royal mail trains never wait, and that carries the mail. It's twenty minutes' work to put that shoe on."
"Shoe, nothing. I put no shoe on. We'll pick up some wayside garage and till that happens I'll drive on the rim. No damage is done on ourflight up the bank. Here we go, halting but steady."
Frank was silent. He was thinking of the effect his absence would have on his teammates. It hurt him to think that his captain would set his nonappearance down to carelessness, and so it had been in a way. He should not have gone so far. He should have insisted that Gleason keep away from the steering wheel. Perhaps the need for his presence would be desperate. His absence might mean, in some unaccountable way, the loss of the meet. These thoughts and many others pounded through his brain as the car limped along the road, but they all had the same refrain: "You've been a failure, you've been a failure."
Rounding a turn in the road, Gleason caught sight of a garage sign, and in a minute drew up at the door. "Ten shillings to put that tire on and put it on quickly," said he. Two workmen from the garage sprang at the wheel, but they had scarcely begun work when a clock in a neighboring church tower boomed the half-hour. The boys looked at each other.
"I know how you feel, Frank," said Gleason. "I was a double-barreled jackass to take you offthis morning, and seventeen times a fool for getting lost."
"I'm in very badly with everyone," said Frank, "but growling will not help matters. Maybe there'll be a later train which will get me there in time."
"I've got you into this, Frank, and I'll get you out of it somehow, don't worry. There must be another train."
With the new shoe on the front wheel and the garage men the richer by several shillings more than the Codfish promised, the red runabout was again headed for Brighton, this time at a more moderate pace. It was just eleven o'clock when the car drew up at the railroad station. Frank almost expected to see some of his teammates, but the platform and waiting-rooms were deserted. Inquiries at the ticket office brought the information that the next London train was at twelve-fifteen and did not reach London till one-fifty.
"One-fifty," groaned Frank. "I might as well take the next ship back to America. I've lost out. I'm disgraced." Both boys were the picture of gloom.
Suddenly Gleason's face lit with high resolve"Look here, Armstrong, I'll take you to London in this machine."
"But it isn't ours, and you have no license to drive."
"It's ours as long as we pay ten shillings an hour for it, license or no license."
"You'd get lost again."
"No, no, it's a straight road. I looked it up once. You follow the railroad. Look here," he added in great excitement, "the thing can be done without a grain of doubt. Here it is a little past eleven. We can certainly average twenty-five miles an hour. That means that we can be there a little after one. Fortunately, the Club is but a little ways out of our course, over in West Kensington."
"I'm game for it," said Frank, "but just the same, I don't like the idea of your going off with a machine and no license. You'll get jugged for sure if anything goes wrong."
"Nothing's going wrong. I got you into this trouble and I'm going to get you out somehow. Climb in and hold onto your headgear, we are only going to hit the high places." He shot away from the station and swung into the great northroad, sign-marked "London," with the motor humming to the quickened pace.
"Nothing to it, Frank," boasted the confident chauffeur. "This is the way they all should have come up, plenty of ozone and action, no stuffy cars. We may even beat them to the club if we have luck," and he pushed the gas lever a few notches higher, and neatly dodged a dog curled up in the sand of the road.
Now that he was headed for London, even Frank's spirits rose. What seemed no chance half an hour ago had been transformed into a possibility. Well he knew that Gleason was exceeding the speed limit, but the time was so short a chance had to be taken with tires, road, police and everything else. The stake was worth it.
One cannot race along the roads of south-east England and race very far. So the inevitable happened. Ten miles outside of Brighton, when Gleason was doing something better than forty miles an hour, he pretended not to hear a hail from the side of the road, and kept straight on, but he could not help hearing the sharp spatter of a motorcycle behind him a minute later, and instinctively knew it was the police. He sloweddown till he was running at about fifteen miles an hour. The officer came alongside. He was plainly angry. "Why didn't you stop when I called to you?" demanded the officer.
"Oh, did you call?" asked the Codfish innocently.
"We are in a great hurry," explained Frank. "We have to be there by one o'clock or one-thirty at the latest."
"Now maybe you will and maybe you won't. Turn that car around and come along with me."
"Look here, this chap here," indicating Frank, "is in that track meet up at Queen's Club at two o'clock this afternoon. He lost his train by accident and I promised to get him there. Now, let us go through."
"Can't be done. You Americans all try to tear through the country at break-neck speed. You can't do it here, I tell you. Let's see your license."
The Codfish began fumbling in his pockets. "Great Scott! I haven't got the thing anywhere about my jeans, the chauffeur must have it, bad luck to him."
"Another thing to explain to the magistrate. Come along now."
The Codfish reluctantly tacked the car around and followed his guide to the little hamlet where the officer first hailed him from the roadside.
To the disgust of the two American youths the magistrate could not be found, a piece of news imparted to them by the officer after a ten minutes' search around the little court building off the main street.
"Well, now, let us go along," insisted the Codfish. "We've made our call, the magistrate isn't in. We've done our duty, now let's call it off. When you come to America I'll get you a job on the police force of Syracuse. Come on, be a good scout and let's be hitting the gravel. This fellow here with me has to jump in the track games at Queen's Club grounds, and it will be a great disappointment to his friends if he can't be there, to say nothing about his own feelings. Think how it would be if he were your own offspring and was jumping for the English to help lick the Yankees." His cross-fire on the officer might possibly have had some effect if affairs had not taken a new and sudden turn for the worse. As the Codfish was making his arguments, a messenger came up and handed the officer a note. Heread it, looked over our friends who were still seated in the car and ran his eye over the car.
"You're a pretty slick young fellow," he said, "but both of you will stay with us for a while. You are in pretty deep."
"How so?" inquired Frank.
"As if you didn't know! Perhaps you never heard of this," and he read the message he had just received: "Stop and hold two young men in red runabout Number 1664B. Stolen from chauffeur near Brighton, known to have started for London shortly after eleven o'clock." The message was signed by the Chief of Police of Brighton.
"A lovely kettle of fish," commented Gleason. "Do you remember once of telling me that I could get into trouble in a desert island?"
"I do and it's true."
"It would be still true if I were alone in the middle of the Pacific. But there's one thing about this business which cheers me: you are now a member of the Criminal Club at Yale in good standing."
"I'd rather be in good standing up at Queen's Club. Do you realize that the team is at London now and we are in the lock-up?"
For the greater part of an hour Frank and Gleason were held in durance vile as automobile thieves, and as a secondary count, breaking the speed limit. But all things finally come to an end. The magistrate was found, and sat with great dignity on the case. One of his first acts was to fine Gleason the sum of five pounds for excessive speed and then to declare him still liable to the charge of theft. Fortunately for the Codfish and Frank, who momentarily expected to be thrown into the village jail, the chauffeur, who had been overcome with the desire to see his parents that morning and who had been the innocent cause of most of the trouble, appeared with the proprietor of the garage where the little red runabout had been obtained.
Explanations soon followed. The garage proprietor verified all that the boys said about their being a part of the American team and followers, and his hand being properly greased with American dollars from the plethoric purse of Gleason, was perfectly willing that the car should go on to London, driven by his own chauffeur.
"But remember," said the magistrate, "not over twenty miles an hour or you'll be brought in before you get to your journey's end."
"At twenty miles an hour," said Frank, "it is no more good to us than an ox-cart. It is nearly one o'clock now and two hours on the road would bring us there too late. I guess it's too late all right," and he turned away, deeply moved by the thought that his hard work, the three thousand-mile trip across the water, the ambitions of himself and of his friends, all went for naught. Tears of chagrin came to his eyes.
"Nothing on earth can save us now," acquiesced the Codfish. "O Lord, if I only had an aeroplane with about a hundred horse-power motor in it," he wailed.
"Guess they could accommodate you down at Burtside," said the officer who, now the incident was closed, showed a friendly interest in the two young men.
"What do you mean?" Frank burst out.
"Oh, there's a flyin' school down at Burtside, 'bout half a mile from here. Perhaps they'd rent one to you young chaps for the afternoon."
"Great Peter!" cried the Codfish, "let's try. Here's a chance. Here," to the returned chauffeur, "drive us down to that aeroplane place if you know where it is. I'm going to buy one."
"Yes, sir," said the chauffeur, thinking thatthe young Americans had better be favored for they were very likely mad as March hares. How could they be otherwise, having first run away with his machine and then, being deprived of that, willing to buy an air craft to continue the journey. But he piloted the boys to Burtside which proved to be a flying school of some importance with biplanes and monoplanes in the hangars, and two or three beginners at the flying game, receiving instruction. The boys quickly explained their errand. They wanted to get to London in desperate haste, trains couldn't accomplish it, automobiles at the rate they let them run over English roads couldn't and there was no other way but the air. The director of the school was not sure whether it could be done or not. Money, Gleason told him, was no object, which played its part in the decision. By good fortune one of the aviators in the school was a young American who had been flying with great success in England for a year. He heard of the plight of his compatriots, and readily agreed to take Frank up. He would take one or the other, but not both.
"I'm willing to pay $200 if you will take Frank Armstrong to the Queen's Club, or as near to thatpoint as you can get, and I'll give you an equal amount not to take me."
"You needn't be afraid," said Butler, "I have no machine that will carry more than one passenger. It will have to be only one of you."
"That suits us both. Armstrong, here, wants to go and I don't, so we're all satisfied."
"Have you ever been up?" inquired Butler of Frank.
"Never, but I'm determined to get to London if I can, and I don't care how it is."
"All right," said Butler. "We have no time to lose. I'll get out the big biplane." The plane was run out of the hangar, examined closely by the attendants, looked over in a cursory manner by the aviator himself. "Now," he said to Frank, "hop up here alongside of me, to the right. Take hold of that wooden support and put your feet on this wire. Don't look down or you may get dizzy. I'm going about five hundred feet high. Keep your eyes straight ahead and forget you're flying."
"Good-by, old fellow," said the Codfish, half in fun and half in earnest, as Frank climbed to his precarious place alongside the aviator, and then to Butler, "Where do you come down?"
"One can never tell in this business, but I will try to land in Hendon, which is only about three miles from the Club."
"And how long will it take?"
"Somewhere about thirty minutes if the wind aloft is as steady and strong as it seems to be down here."
"Frank, that will get you to Hendon at one-forty-five, and a taxi will do the rest. I'll come as fast as I can in the motor, and if we don't get pinched again I may get to dear old London in time to see the finish."
"All ready," sang out Butler. A half dozen attendants clung fast to the trail of the big biplane while another spun the propeller. The engine immediately sprang into noisy life, the roar of the exhaust drowning out all human speech in the neighborhood. Gleason saw the hands of the aviator drop off the steering-wheel in a downward sweeping signal which meant "let go," a signal instantly obeyed by the attendants, who dropped flat on the ground while the great tail of the birdlike monster swept over their heads with an ever increasing rush. For fifty or sixty feet the running gear of the machine kept on the ground, but, as the velocity increased and Butler elevatedhis plane, the machine gradually cleared the earth and soared aloft. The Codfish watched it as it rose and followed it in the vastness of the sky vault until there was but a mere dot against the fluffy clouds in the northern sky.
We will leave Frank Armstrong shooting Londonward in the largest passenger-carrying biplane in the Burtside School for Aviators, seated on a mere chip of a seat, holding on with a death grip to the slender upright of seasoned spruce, and turn our attention back to the morning at Brighton.
Contrary to what Gleason and Frank imagined as they sat in their disabled motor on the highway some miles outside of Brighton at the hour their train was scheduled to leave, they were not missed at first. In the hurry of leaving their temporary training quarters, the team managers and assistants had so much to do that they left the business of getting from the hotel to the station, a matter of only a few hundred yards, to the individuals themselves. No one happened to notice, as they left the hotel in straggling groups of three and four, that Armstrong was not with them. At the station half a dozen compartmentson the London train having been reserved in advance, the athletes tumbled aboard without even a thought of luggage, taking it for granted, with the usual cheerful carelessness of traveling athletes, that everything would be all right. Each was concerned only for himself. It was not to be thought of for a moment that any member of either team would be so foolish as to get himself left behind.
The ten-thirty on the London and Brighton was the vestibule and corridor type of train, not like the ordinary single compartment coach in common use on English and Continental railroads. It was therefore possible to pass from car to car and from compartment to compartment on this train much the same as on an American Pullman train, and visiting between team members shortly began. Trainer Black, going the rounds, discovered that Armstrong was missing.
At first it was thought that he, with his companion Gleason, had accidentally gotten into a wrong compartment, but a hasty search from end to end of the train disclosed the fact that he was not aboard at all.
"I don't remember having seen him afterbreakfast," said the Yale captain. "Could he have gone up to London on the train ahead of us by any chance?"
"No," returned McGregor, "Armstrong is very conscientious and would not disobey orders which were explicit enough about this train."
"I'll bet a hat," said Halloby, "that his rattle-headed friend, Codfish Gleason, took him out for a ride this morning, and that something went wrong with the power-plant, and they are sitting on the road somewhere waiting for someone to tow them home."
And, as it proved, Hurdler Halloby wasn't so far out of the way, excepting that, instead of sitting on the road, they were at that moment falling with a loud report into the hands of the law. So, perhaps, it was well that no one on the American team knew their exact location.
"Come to think of it," said another, "I saw the chap they call Codfish swing around to the hotel this morning in a red runabout and a little later saw the runabout going off up the street, but didn't notice who was in it. But I do know that all three seats were full."
"That's enough," said Black. "Gleason thinks he is the sole and special guard of Armstrong'shealth and happiness, and hired that automobile for the purpose of keeping the jumper's mind occupied with something besides jumping. I agreed to it myself. Now we lose a man on account of it."
"Thank goodness," broke in the captain, "we didn't have to depend on him for an event or we'd have been in a bad way. If he should get to the grounds in time after all, I'd feel like punishing him by not allowing him to jump," snapped the captain.
"He's punished already," said Black. "Probably eating his heart out somewhere. He's the most conscientious fellow I ever saw. It's his fool friend, the Codfish, who got him into any trouble that he's in."
"I'll telegraph him to come on the next train," said the captain.
"Will not do much good, I guess, the next train wouldn't get him there in time. But don't worry, he'll be there at those games if he hasn't met with a serious accident, or I miss my guess badly, but as for his doing any good, it's another matter."
"It's too bad," growled Captain Harrington. "The papers will throw the hot shot into us forbeing careless. It makes us all look like dummies, confound the luck!"
"Don't worry about it, Captain. You have enough on your hands, and Vare is a certain winner anyway in Armstrong's event. You have your own troubles this afternoon in the quarter. So take it easy, and quit worrying about something that really doesn't matter a great deal as far as actual results go."
"I'm going to telegraph, just the same," returned the captain, "to the Grand. They would probably go there when they found we had gone, eh?"
"Go ahead, it will do no harm," admitted Black.
So Harrington sent off a telegram from a station fifteen miles or so from London. A bit peremptory the telegram was, but it relieved the captain's feelings. This was the telegram:
"Frank Armstrong, The Grand, Brighton. Come to London on next train, take taxi to Queen's Club immediately afterwards. Absolutely no excuse for missing team train."
"Frank Armstrong, The Grand, Brighton. Come to London on next train, take taxi to Queen's Club immediately afterwards. Absolutely no excuse for missing team train."
But this telegram, as we have seen, never reached the man for whom it was intended.
At one o'clock taxicabs dropped the Yale-Harvardathletes, attendants, and trainers at the south gate of Queen's Club. Already several thousand people had gathered in the stands, and a steady stream was pouring in the gates, not with the impetuosity that distinguishes an American crowd, but interested withal in the games they were shortly to see. The majority of the crowd was, of course, English, but the Americans made a brave showing. They gathered together, apparently for mutual support, halfway down the track stretch and at once selected a cheer leader who was now working up enthusiasm by an occasional yell, simply to let the enemy know that young America would be heard from in more ways than one. A surprising number of Americans had come together for the event. Not all were Harvard and Yale men, although members of these two institutions predominated. Students and graduates from universities all over the United States might have been seen in the crowd. It was not a Harvard-Yale affair to them, it was America against England, and everyone from the far side of the Atlantic was there to lend a shout for his countrymen. College lines were forgotten.
Along the track-side and in the grand standspeculation was rife as to the outcome of the games. Experts had figured out just how the various men were to finish, and the figures had been printed in the morning papers and in the noon editions. All admitted, however, that the match would be an extremely close one with the chances slightly in favor of the visitors.
"Well," said one confident young man in the group of Americans, "we'll take the hundred, two-twenty and both the hurdles. I'd bet my last dollar on that. These Englishmen can't get their legs moving in a short distance."
"Ah, yes, but then when it comes to the longer distance we can't keep our wind going. That's where they have us."
"Oh, I don't know, there's Harrington, the Yale captain, who can certainly get away with the quarter. He's been doing under fifty seconds right along. He will give us the fifth event, and all we need to tie is one more, and to win, two more. Why, Dick, old fel, it's a cinch."
"And what are the other two events, please, Sir Prophet?"
"Shot for one, they can't beat old red-top McGinnis. These English chaps never learned how to put a shot anyway, and there's the high jump,certainly ours; it's like taking money from a baby."
"Sounds like seven wins, the way you have it figured out."
"It is seven places or my training as to what five and two make is all to the bad. I tell you it's a cinch. I'd put up all my spare cash on it, and walk home cheerfully if I lost out. But, pshaw! we can't lose!"
Conversation was checked by the appearance of several athletes who had emerged from the Club locker-room doorway, and who were walking across the turfed stretch to the track. They were seen to be Americans, and a ringing shout went up from their supporters which brought smiles to the faces of the young athletes. The English spectators applauded the Americans with hand-clapping. By twos and threes the athletes made their appearance on the track before the hour set for the beginning of the games, for the day was bright and warm and the sun of more advantage to them than the shade and cool of the training quarters.
It is not our purpose to narrate in detail the doings of the half hundred athletes who struggled for the honor of their colleges and countrythat afternoon nor how records fell and predictions of experts were set at naught, how the balance swung this way and that, how the mercurial American cheer-leader ruined the throats of his countrymen for the encouragement of the team striving desperately on field and track. We are more intimately concerned with Frank Armstrong whom we left a thousand feet more or less in the air, taking a last desperate chance to be in at the finish on the Queen's Club track.
Frank afterwards said that he experienced no fear of any kind as the flying machine glided upward from the earth. At first there was the sensation of great speed, though the machine was comparatively close to the ground, but as the height increased that sensation diminished. Instead of the machine seeming to rise, the earth seemed to drop away leaving the machine stationary. Below, the country revealed itself like a map, with the highways and lanes standing out sharply. To the south he got the glint of the English Channel, and to the north was a great black smudge which he took to be London with its smoke from tens of thousands of chimneys.
"Going higher," shouted Butler. "Bad currents down here." The words came faintly toFrank through the roaring of the wind and the sharp crackle of the engine exhaust. The plane plunged and rocked in an air billow.
"Go ahead as far as you want to," shouted Frank, "but get me there." He had lost all sensation of fear and almost of interest in the flight. His mind was on Queen's Club. Steadily the machine climbed until the green of the trees and the grass all became as one, and the red tiles of the roofs showed only as a splash of color among the vast expanse of green. At the greater height of perhaps two thousand feet, where Butler found better currents, Frank thought the country below seemed more than ever like a map in one of his old school geographies. Twenty towns and cities lay within the range of his vision and, by turning his head slightly, he could distinguish, across the whole width of the Channel, the dim outlines of the shores of France.
The motor of the big biplane, which had been running with the precision of a well-timed clock for the space of half an hour, began to give evidence of something wrong with its internals. It skipped, stuttered in its rhythm for a moment and then went on, only to repeat in a moment. The aviator, helpless in this emergency, merelyjiggled his spark lever, but the stuttering of the motor continued, and then with a most disconcerting suddenness the motor stopped entirely.
"We've got to come down," shouted Butler, "but I'll make our fall as long as possible. Hold tight."
Frank needed no urging. He felt the death of the steady forward movement and the grip of gravity as the biplane began to drop with incredible swiftness toward the earth. But it was a drop which was controlled by the cool-headed Butler, and every foot of the drop took them nearer to their destination.
Five hundred feet below, Frank saw a little patch of green field entirely free from trees or shrubbery, and to this he rightly guessed the aviator was heading. It looked like a golf course from that height, and, indeed, proved to be. Now they were directly over the haven which Butler had picked out, and it seemed in a fair way to pass it, when the flyer banked hard to the left, almost pivoted on his left wing, brought the machine around over the golf links again and, with a final swooping spiral came to earth with a shock sufficiently hard to snap off at the hub one of the wheels of the biplane's running gear.
"Sorry," said Butler, "I couldn't land you where I promised, but this motor has played hob with me. She's been acting badly for a week."
A score of people came running up. "Hurt, hurt?" they cried.
"Hurt? no!" said Frank, "only disappointed. We were heading for Hendon. How far is it to Queen's Club grounds?"
"'Bout five miles," volunteered someone.
"Is there a taxicab place about here anywhere?" inquired Frank. "I've got to get to Queen's Club on the double quick." He looked at his watch. It showed three minutes of two. The games were about to begin!
"Butler, excuse me if I leave you," cried Frank.
"Go to it, boy," said Butler, "and the Lord bless you."
Heading in the direction of a taxicab stand, Frank started off on a sharp trot, but was doomed to disappointment as not a taxi was available atthat moment, and the man in the little office wasn't hopeful that any would be back right away. "They may come any minute, and there may not be a blooming one for half an hour. If you'll take the 'bus on the next street, it will take you within half a mile of Queen's Club grounds."
Scarcely waiting to hear the last words, Frank darted for the street mentioned, and, after a wait of five minutes, boarded an electric 'bus bound for West Kensington. Fortunately, he found a seat-mate who was well acquainted with what was going on at Queen's Club that day.
"Going to see the games, I suppose," he said. From him Frank learned that a short cut could be made which would be of considerable help as a time-reducer. Fixing the direction in his mind, he sprang from the 'bus at the street indicated, and started on a run in the general direction of the Club.
As he ran, the last instructions of Trainer Black came to his mind: "Take it easy till the games, and keep off your feet." He could not suppress a grim smile as he pounded along, running flat-footed to keep as much spring as possible in his toes if he ever reached the track and if hewas in time when he did reach there. Always he kept an eye out for a taxi, but fate was against him and he saw none excepting those with fares seated therein, and whirling along on their own business.
Losing his way, finding it again with the help of passers-by, and nearly but not quite despairing of there ever having been such a place in London as the Queen's Club, he was halted by a college yell, sharp and incisive, delivered comparatively near. Getting his bearings from the direction in which the yell came, he dashed through a short street and stood before the main gate of the Club.
"Is it over?" he panted to the officer at the gate. "The meet—is it over?"
"Who are you?" asked the officer, staring at the newcomer, whose eyes, fierce in their intensity, looked out from a face streaked with sweat and dirt.
"I'm one of the competitors," gasped Frank.
"Ho, ho!" laughed the officer, "you look it. Did you run all the way from New York?"
"Iam one of the competitors," said Frank, emphasizing every word, "and through an accidentgot left at Brighton. Please let me go to the training quarters of the American team."
"Well, 'ere's a rum cove. Comes up 'ere and wants to get passed into the gymes for nothink."
For a few minutes it looked as if, after all his trouble to get to the Club grounds, he was to be held up outside while his chance was lost. Finally, however, he induced the officer to send a messenger to the American quarters, and in half a minute he was snatched through the gate by an assistant trainer and stood in the presence of Captain Harrington, who was just going out for his quarter.
The captain looked him over with cold, hard eyes. "You're a little late," he said. "We don't bring men across the Atlantic to have them late for the beginning of a track meet. You are no value to us. We will not need you."
Frank opened his mouth to speak, but Harrington interrupted sharply with "I don't want to hear excuses," and passed on to the start of his event. Frank did not have the heart even to look at the race which was slated to go to the Americans through the superior ability of the Yale captain. Trainer Black looked up when he entered the building, but said nothing. Frank feltas if he had been thrown into outer darkness. He ground his teeth in impotent rage and dropped into a chair, listening in a half-hearted way to the little volley of spontaneous cheering which drifted through the window.
"What's that?" cried Trainer Black, and dashed out the door. "Sounds like an English cheer!"
An English cheer it was, and it announced the victory of a Cambridge "dark horse" who had run the Yale quarter-mile champion off his feet in the stretch. A minute later Harrington staggered into the room, and threw himself face downward on a table.
"This loses us the meet," said a rubber in a whisper. "To think that Harrington should lose out, of all people. He loafed too much in the first part of the race and couldn't hold the sprint at the end. It was a foxy trick the Englishman worked, but a fair win enough."
"Where's Armstrong, where's Armstrong?" came the excited call by Trainer Black.
Frank stood up. "Here," he said simply.
"Get into your clothes," Black shouted. "Why are you sitting there like a dummy? Here, some of you fellows help him. Patsy, rub his leg musclesa bit—Jack, help Patsy. Move lively!"
Frank tore off his clothes, and in half a minute his leg muscles were being slapped and kneaded by the two rubbers as if their life depended on doing a quick and thorough job.
"It's like this," said Black, coming over to the rubbing table. "Everything went about as scheduled until Harrington fell down in his quarter. That leaves us short an event we counted on."
"Did we get the shot?"
"No, confound it, that Rhodes scholar from Dakota beat our man out on the last try."
"So the Englishmen have now two more than we calculated?"
"Exactly, and there isn't a ghost of a chance of their losing the two-mile run unless their men choke."
"And the broad-jump?" inquired Frank, weakly.
"You've got to win that!" Black said it as if it was by no means an unusual request.
"Win it?" gasped Frank. "What has Vare done?"
"Took only three jumps the last of which was twenty-three feet, and hasn't jumped again. McGregor's been dragging his tries along, hopingthat you would turn up, but he hasn't been able to do better than twenty-two six. Armstrong, if you can turn the trick on Vare it will give us the meet. You've got to do it!" he added vehemently.
Frank rolled from the rubbing table, slipped into his scanty track suit, and, with the Yale manager, trotted quickly to the field. "I suppose you are in good shape," suggested the manager hopefully. "Were you resting and keeping off your feet?"
In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Frank could hardly restrain a grin. "Keeping off my feet!" he thought. "If they knew what I've been through to get here! Guess I'm all right," he said aloud.
McGregor greeted Frank enthusiastically. "Where in the name of Billy Patterson have you been?" and then, without waiting for an answer: "This Vare is a grasshopper. He has this event cinched, you and I are only ornaments, not real jumpers at all, and the Johnny Bulls have decided they've licked the Yankees for once in their lives—look! they're beginning to go!" Then to Frank: "For pity's sake, let out a link and make a good showing. I'm tied to the ground with a bag of lead in each heel."
Frank did not need any urging. The complacent attitude of the Englishmen, who were beginning to file out in groups of three or four, their faces showing the satisfaction of sure victory, added to his determination. He had made a desperate struggle to be where he was now, and he was not going to let it end there.
Measuring off the runway with more than ordinary care, Vare set his marks, and, after two or three practice runs, loped down the runway and made his first leap.
"Twenty-two feet, four inches," sang out the measurer.
Vare had walked to the jumping pit. A flicker of a smile crossed his face, he nodded cheerfully to his Cambridge jumping mate, and picking up his jersey swung it across his shoulder, and, without another look at the Americans, turned his face to the track house.
"His Lordship Vare de Vare has published to the world that it's all over, Frank," said McGregor. "I'd give a good right leg if I could beat him, he's so mighty superior. But I've only got one more jump, and it's not in me. If you don't want to see my poor busted heart cluttering up this field, go after him."
"It's now or never," said Frank to himself as he walked slowly down the runway. "What was it Princewell said—think high when you hit the take-off—think high—— I'll think a mile high if it will help!"
In spite of the difficulties he had undergone in getting to the Club, he was keyed to such a state of nervous excitement that he felt as if he were walking on air. The hard incidents of the morning were forgotten, the thrilling ride in the air machine, the abrupt landing, the killing run through torrid streets, the frigid reception of his captain. Now, with his opportunity at hand he became cool and calculating. He had a splendid reserve of strength to call upon, and he would call it to the last ounce.
Down the runway came Armstrong like a flash, first slowly, then with a great burst of speed. His eye was fixed on the take-off block, but his mind was on that four-foot hurdle supposed to be six feet out there in the pit. He struck the block perfectly and, with hands thrown high in the air and feet drawn up to clear the imaginary hurdle, he sailed up and forward, struck at last in the pit and held his full distance.
With a shout McGregor, recognizing a goodjump, sprang from the bench and ran forward to the jumping pit from which Frank was just stepping, brushing away the loam that clung to his ankles.
"Twenty-three feet, even," the announcer bawled.
Coming so unexpectedly, the announcement for a moment fell on deaf ears. Then, as the full significance became apparent, the Americans in the stand set up a piercing and spontaneous yell which startled and turned back the crowd already moving in larger and larger numbers in the direction of the gate.
"Y-e-a-a-a—Armstrong!" yelled McGregor in a frenzy of delight, and fell upon that individual like a long lost brother, beat him upon the back and capered about like a man bereft of his senses. "It means that old Claude Vare de Vare, Lord of Creation and Elsewhere, has got to come back and do it over again! We have a chance! Oh, Armstrong, it means we have a chance!"
Interest in the stand immediately became intense. People who were leaving returned to their seats.
"A ripping jump!" commented an Englishman as he reseated himself, "but Vare will take hismeasure." Vare had been sent for, and was even now walking calmly across the track with an attitude which said plainly: "What's all this fuss about anyway? We'll settle this now once and for all."
A ripple of applause and hand-clapping ran through the stands as Vare turned to face the pit at the far end of the runway, and glanced down the narrow way now hedged with faces. He was a champion of champions, and would show them how a champion jumped. But not that time, for his best effort fell under twenty-three feet.
Surprised at his poor jump, he lost his composure and, against the advice of his friends, took a second jump without rest, and that, too, fell below his jump of twenty-three feet.
The news that Armstrong had equaled Vare's best jump spread to the locker rooms of the two teams, and excitement ran high. What had seemed like an event lost for a certainty to the Americans, had in a moment been turned into a possibility.
McGregor had taken his last jump without changing the situation in any way. Thereafter he devoted himself to encouraging Armstrong, whose magnificent leap had raised the hopes ofthe whole American contingent. "You have him now, Frank," McGregor whispered as, with arm over Frank's shoulder, the two walked down the runway. "He let himself get cold, and I'll bet he can't reach twenty-three feet again."
But McGregor was mistaken. Vare, the champion, after he had had more life rubbed into his muscles, shot down the runway and cleared twenty-three feet, one inch and a half. A little scattering cheer from the Englishmen, and Vare sat down on the jumpers' bench, his face showing the relief he felt. "I'm all right now," he said to an anxious, inquiring teammate, "but I felt jolly well frozen those first two jumps, though."
"The meet," bawled the announcer, facing the grand stand, "now stands six events for America and six for England, with the broad-jump still to be decided. Vare, of Oxford, has the longest jump to his credit—twenty-three feet, one and a half inches, which he made in breaking the tie created by Armstrong, of Yale, with a jump of twenty-three feet, which ishisbest at present."
At this moment Captain Harrington came onto the track in street clothes. He walked up to Frank: "Armstrong," he said, "Jack told me all about your troubles getting here. I want to tellyou you made a game fight to correct the original mistake. I know you were personally not at fault. Here's my hand on it!"
Frank took the proffered hand. His captain had taken him back into the fold, and his heart swelled almost to the bursting point with sudden joy. If Frank needed anything to make him unbeatable that afternoon, the thing had come to pass. "I'll try to justify your faith in me," was all he said, but his eyes shone with a new light.
Coming down the runway with a surpassing rush of speed, he hit the take-off perfectly on his next trial, and soared into the air. Spectators, who saw him, said afterward that he seemed to take a step at the highest point of his flight, but it was only the first appearance of the famous "scissors hitch" used by other great jumpers before him, and which he had simply happened on, in his endeavor to get great distance. He struck squarely on his feet in almost a sitting posture, but his impetus carried him forward so powerfully that he pitched head-first into the soft loam of the pit. He held every inch of his great jump, however.
For it was a great jump. That could be seen by anyone, and the officials and trackmen gatheredaround while a careful measurement was taken. The serene Vare was sufficiently stirred himself to crowd close to the pit.
"What is it, what is it?" snapped Harrington who could hardly await the rather deliberate speech of the man at the end of the steel tape, who was taking his time to make certain.
"Twenty-three feet, four inches!"