TOC
The rector received Irving with a smile. “Well,” he said, “I think you must be a believer in the maxim, ‘Hit hard and hit first.’ Would you mind telling me what was the trouble?”
“It wasn’t so much any one thing,” replied Irving. “It was a culmination of little things.—Oh, I suppose I started in wrong with the fellows somehow.”
He was silent for a moment, in dejection.
“A good many do that,” said Dr. Davenport. “There would be small progress in the world if there never was any rectifying of false starts.”
“I can hardly help it if I look young,” said Irving. “That’s one of my troubles. I suppose I ought to avoid acting young. I haven’t, altogether. They call me Kiddy.”
“We get hardened to nicknames,” observed the rector. “But often they’re affectionate. At least I like to cherish that delusion with regard to mine; my legs have the same curve as Napoleon’s, and I have been known as ‘Old Hoopo’ for years.”
“But they don’t call you that to your face.”
“No, not exactly. Have they been calling you ‘Kiddy’ to your face?”
“It amounts to that.” Irving narrated the remarks that he had overheard in dormitory, and then described Westby’s performance at the blackboard.
“That certainly deserved rebuke,” agreed the rector. “Though I think Westby was attempting to be facetious rather than insolent; I have never seen anything to indicate that he was a malicious boy.—What was it that Louis Collingwood did?”
Irving recited the offense.
“Weren’t you a little hasty in assuming that he was trying to tease you?” asked the rector. “When he persisted in wanting to show you how the forward pass is made? Ithink it’s quite likely he was sincere; he’s so enthusiastic over football that it doesn’t occur to him that others may not share his interest. I don’t think Collingwood was trying to be ‘fresh.’ Of course, he shouldn’t have lost his temper and banged the ball at your door—but I think that hardly showed malice.”
“It seemed to me it was insolent—and disorderly. I felt the fellows all thought they could do anything with me and I would be afraid to report them. And so I thought I’d show them I wasn’t afraid.”
“At the same time, three sheets is the heaviest punishment, short of actual suspension, that we inflict. It seems hardly a penalty for heedless or misguided jocularity.”
“I think perhaps I was hard on Collingwood,” admitted Irving.
“If he comes to you about it—maybe you’ll feel disposed to modify the punishment. And possibly the same with Westby.”
“I don’t feel sure that I’ve been too hard on Westby.”
The rector smiled; he was not displeased at this trace of stubbornness.
“Well, I won’t advise you any further about that. Use your own judgment. It takes time for a young man to get his bearings in a place like this.—If you don’t mind my saying it,” added the rector mildly, “couldn’t you be a little more objective in your interests?”
“You mean,” said Irving, “less—less self-centred?”
“That’s it.” The rector smiled.
“I’ll try,” said Irving humbly.
“All right; good luck.” The rector shook hands with him and turned to his desk.
There was no disturbance in the Mathematics class that day. Irving hoped that after the hour Westby and Collingwood might approach him to discuss the justice of the reports which he had given them, and so offer him an opportunity of lightening the punishment. But in this he was disappointed. Nor did they come to him in the noon recess—the usual time for boys who felt themselves wronged to seek out the masters who had wronged them.
Irving debated with himself the advisability of going to the two boys and voluntarily remitting part of their task. But he decided against this; to make the advances and the concession both would be to concede too much.
At luncheon there was an unpleasant moment. No sooner had the boys sat down than Blake, a Fifth Former, called across the table to Westby,—
“Say, Westby, who was it that gave you three sheets?”
Westby scowled and replied,—
“Mr. Upton.”
“What for?”
“Oh, ask him.”
Irving reddened, aware of the glancing, curious gaze of every boy at the table. There was an interesting silence, relieved at last by the appearance of the boy with the mail. Among the letters, Irving found one from Lawrence; he opened it with a sense that it afforded him a momentary refuge. The unintended irony of the first words drew a bitter smile to his lips.
“You are certainly a star teacher,” Lawrence wrote, “and I know now what a success you must be making with your new job. I have just learned that I passed all the examinations—which is more than you or I ever dreamed I could do—so I am now a freshman at Harvard without conditions. And it’s all due to you; I don’t believe there’s another man on earth that could have got me through with such a record and in so short a time.”
Irving forgot the irony, forgot Westby and Collingwood and the amused, whispering boys. Happiness had suddenly flashed down and caught him up and borne him away to his brother. Lawrence’s whole letter was so gay, so exultant, so grateful that Irving, when he finished it, turned back again to the first page. When at last he raised his eyes from it, they dwelt unseeingly upon the boys before him; they held his brother’s image, his brother’s smile. And from the vision he knew that there at least he had justified himself, whatever might be his failure now; and if he had succeeded once, he could succeed again.
Irving became aware that Westby was treating him with cheerful indifference—ignoring him. He did not care; the letter had put into him new courage. And pretty soon there woke in him along with this courage a gentler spirit; it was all very well for Westby, a boy and therefore under discipline, to exhibit a stiff and haughty pride; but it was hardly admirable that a master should maintain that attitude. The punishment to which he had sentenced Westby and Collingwood was, it appeared, too harsh; if they were so proud that they would not appeal to him to modify it, he would make a sacrifice in the interest of justice.
So after luncheon he followed Westby and spoke to him outside of the dining-room.
“Westby,” he said, “do you think that considering the circumstances three sheets is excessive?”
Westby looked surprised; then he shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m not asking any favors,” he replied.
Irving laughed. “No,” he said, “I seeyou’re not. But I’m afraid I must deny you the pleasure of martyrdom. I’ll ask you to take a note to Mr. Elwood—he’s in charge of the Study, isn’t he? I’ll tell him that you’re to write a sheet and a half instead of three sheets.”
He drew a note-book from his pocket and tore out one of the pages. Westby looked at him curiously—as if in an effort to determine just how poor-spirited this sudden surrender was. Irving spoke again before writing.
“By the way, will you please ask Collingwood to come here?”
When Westby returned with Collingwood, Irving had the note written and handed it to him; there was no excuse for Westby to linger. He went over and waited by the door, while Irving said,—
“Collingwood, why didn’t you come up and ask me to reduce your report? Didn’t you think it was unfair?”
“Yes,” Collingwood answered promptly.
“Well, then—why didn’t you come to me and say so?”
Collingwood thought a moment.
“Well,” he said, “you had such fun in soaking me that I wasn’t going to give you the additional satisfaction of seeing me cry baby.”
“I’ll learn something about boys sometime—if you fellows will keep on educating me,” observed Irving. “I think your performance of yesterday deserves about a sheet; we’ll make it that.”
He scribbled a note and handed it to the boy.
“Thank you, Mr. Upton.” Collingwood tucked the note into his pocket with a friendly smile, and then joined Westby.
“Knock you down to half a sheet?” asked Westby, as they departed in the direction of the Study, where they were to perform their tasks.
“No; a sheet.”
“Mine’s one and a half now. What got into him?”
“He’s not without sense,” said Collingwood.
“Ho!” Westby was derisive. “He’s soft. He got scared. He knew he’d gone too far—and he was afraid to stand by his guns.”
“I don’t think so. I think he’s just trying to do the right thing.”
It was unfortunate for Irving that later in the afternoon Carter of the Fifth Form—who played in the banjo club with Westby—was passing the Study building just as Westby was coming out from his confinement.
“Hello, Wes!” said Carter. “Thought you were in for three sheets; how do you happen to be at large so soon?”
“Kiddy made it one and a half—without my asking him,” said Westby.
“And Collingwood the same?”
“He made his only a sheet.”
“That’s it,” said Carter shrewdly. “I was waiting to see the rector this morning; the door was open, and he had Kiddy in there with him. I guess he was lecturing him on those reports; I guess he told him he’d have to take off a couple of sheets.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Westby. “Idon’t believe old Hoopo would have interfered much on my account,—but I guess he couldn’t stand for Lou Collingwood getting three sheets. And Kiddy, the fox, tried to make us think he was being magnanimous!”
Westby chuckled over his humorous discovery, and as soon as possible imparted it to Collingwood.
“Oh, well, what if the rector did make him do it?” said Collingwood. “The way he did it shows he’s all right—”
“Trying to get the credit with us for being just and generous!” observed Westby. “Oh, I don’t mind; of course it’s only Kiddy.”
And it was Westby’s view of the matter which most of the boys heard and credited. So the improvement in the general attitude for which Irving had hoped was hardly to be noticed. He had some gratification the next Sunday when the roast beef was brought on and he carved it with creditable ease and dispatch; the astonishment of the whole table, and especially of Westby and Carroll, was almost as good as applause. He could not resist saying, in a casual way, “The knife seems to be sharp this Sunday.” And he felt that for once Westby was nonplussed.
But the days passed, and Irving felt that he was not getting any nearer to the boys. At his table the talk went on before him, mainly about athletics, about college life, about Europe and automobiles,—all topics from which he seemed strangely remote. It needed only the talk of these experienced youths to make him realize that he had gone through college without ever touching “college life,”—its sports, its social diversions, its adventures. It had been for him a life in a library, in classrooms, in his own one shabby little room,—a cloistered life; in the hard work of it and the successful winning of his way he had been generally contented and happy. But he could not talk to these boys about “college life” as it appeared to them; and they very soon, perhaps by common consent, eliminated him from the conversation. Nor was he able to cope with Westby in the swift, glancing monologues which flowed on and on sometimes, to the vastamusement of the audience. Often to Irving these seemed not very funny, and he did not know which was the more trying—to sit grave and unconcerned in the midst of so much mirth or to keep his mouth stretched in an insincere, wooden smile. Whichever he did, he felt that Westby always was taking notes, to ridicule him afterwards to the other boys.
One habit which Westby had was that of bringing a newspaper to supper and taking the table with him in an excursion over headlines and advertising columns. His mumbling manner, his expertness in bringing out distinctly a ridiculous or incongruous sentence, and his skill in selecting such sentences at a glance always drew attention and applause; he had the comedian’s technique.
The boys at the neighboring tables, hearing so much laughter and seeing that Westby was provoking it, would stop eating and twist round and tilt back their chairs and strain their ears eagerly for some fragment of the fun. At last at the head table Mr. Randolph took cognizance of this daily boisterousness,spoke to Irving about it, and asked him to curb it. Irving thereupon suggested to Westby that he refrain from reading his newspaper at table.
“But all the fellows depend on me to keep themau courant, as it were.” Westby was fond of dropping into French in his arguments with Irving.
“You will have to choose some other time for it,” Irving answered. “I understand that there is a rule against reading newspapers at table, and I think it must be observed.”
“Oh, very well,—de bon cœur,” said Westby.
The next day at supper he appeared without his newspaper. But in the course of the meal he drew from his pocket some newspaper clippings which he had pasted together and which he began to read in his usual manner. Soon the boys of the table were laughing, soon the boys of the adjacent tables were twisting round and trying to share in the amusement. Westby read in his rapid consecutive way,—
“‘Does no good unless taken as directed—pain in the back, loins, or region of the kidneys—danger signal nature hangs out—um—um—um. Mother attacks son with razor, taking tip of left ear. Catcher Dan McQuilligan signs with the Red Sox—The Woman Beautiful—Bright Eyes: Every woman is entitled to a clear, brilliant complexion—um—if she is not so blessed, it is usually her own fault—um—Candidate for pulchritude: reliable beauty shop—do not clip the eyelashes—um.—Domestic science column—Baked quail: pick, draw, and wipe the bird outside and inside; use a wet cloth.—No, Hortense, it is not necessary to offer a young man refreshments during an evening call.’”
Westby was going on and on; he had a hilarious audience now of three tables. From the platform at the end of the dining-room Mr. Randolph looked down and shook his head—shook it emphatically; and Irving, seeing it, understood the signal.
“Westby,” said Irving. “Westby!” He had to raise his voice.
“Yes, sir?” Westby looked up innocently.
“I will have to ask you to discontinue your reading.”
“But this is not a newspaper.”
“It’s part of one.”
“Yes, sir, but the rule is against bringing newspapers to table—not against bringing newspaper clippings to table.”
“The rule’s been changed,” said Irving. “It now includes clippings.”
“You see how it is, fellows.” Westby turned to the others. “Persecuted—always persecuted. If I’m within the rules—they change the rules to soak me. Well,”—he folded up his clippings and put them in his pocket,—“the class in current topics is dismissed. But instead Mr. Upton has very kindly consented to entertain us this evening—some of his inimitable chit-chat—”
“I wouldn’t always try to be facetious, Westby,” said Irving.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied Westby urbanely. “If I have wounded your sensibilities—I would not do that—never—jamais—pas du tout.”
Irving said nothing; it seemed to him that Westby always had the last word; it seemed to him as if Westby was always skillfully tripping him up, executing a derisive flourish over his prostrate form, and then prancing away to the cheers of the populace.
But there were no more violent encounters, such as had taken place in the class-room; Westby never quite crossed the line again; and Irving controlled his temper on threatening occasions. These occurred in dormitory less often; the fine weather and the fall sports—football and tennis and track athletics—kept the boys out-doors. On rainy afternoons there was apt to be some noise and disorder—usually there was what was termed an “Allison hunt,” which took various forms, but which, whether resulting in the dismemberment of the boy’s room or the pursuit and battery of him with pillows along the corridors, invariably required Irving’s interference to quell it. This task of interference, though it was one that hecame to perform more and more capably, never grew less distasteful or less humiliating; he saw always the row of faces wearing what he construed as an impudent grin. What seemed to him curious was the fact that Allison after a fashion enjoyed—at least did not resent—the outrages of which he was the subject; after them he would be found sitting amicably with his tormentors, drinking their chocolate and eating their crackers and jam. This was so different from his own attitude after he had been teased that Irving could not understand it. After studying the case, he concluded that the “Allison hunts” were not prompted by any hatred of the subject, but by the fact merely that he was big, clumsy, good-natured, slow-witted—easy to make game of—and especially by the fact that when aroused he showed a certain joyous rage in his own defense. But Irving saw no way of learning a lesson from Allison.
As the days went on, the sense of his isolation in the School became more oppressive. He had thought that if only the fellows wouldlet him alone, he would be contented; he found that was not so. They let him alone now entirely; he envied those masters who were popular—whom boys liked to visit on Sunday evenings, who were consulted about contributions to theMirror, the school paper, who were invited to meetings of the Stylus, the literary society, who coached the football elevens or went into the Gymnasium and did “stunts” with the boys on the flying rings.
One day when he was walking down to the athletic field with Mr. Barclay, he said something that hinted his wistful and unhappy state of mind. Barclay had suspected it and had been waiting for such an opportunity.
“Why don’t you make some interest for yourself which would put you on a footing with the boys—outside of the class-room and the dormitory?” he asked.
“I wish I could. But how?”
“You ought to be able to work up an interest of some sort,” said Barclay vaguely.
“I don’t know anything about athletics; I’m not musical, I don’t seem to be able to beentertaining and talk to the boys. I guess I’m just a grind. I shall never be of much use as a teacher; it’s bad enough to feel that you’re not up to your job. It’s worse when it makes you feel that you’re even less up to the job that you hoped to prepare for.”
“How’s that?”
“I meant to study law; I’d like to be a lawyer. But what’s the use? If I can’t learn to handle boys, how can I ever hope to handle men?—and that’s what a lawyer has to do, I suppose.”
“Look here,” said Barclay. “You’re still young; if you’ve learned what’s the matter with you—and you seem to have—you’ve learned more than most fellows of your age. It’s less than a month that you’ve been here, and you’ve never had any experience before in dealing with boys. Why should you expect to know it all at once?”
“I suppose there’s something in that. But I feel that I haven’t it in me ever to get on with them.”
“You’re doing better now than you did atfirst; they don’t look on you entirely as a joke now, do they?”
“Perhaps not.—Oh,” Irving broke out, “I know what the trouble is—I want to be liked—and I suppose I’m not the likeable kind.”
Barclay did not at once dispute this statement, and Irving was beginning to feel hurt.
“The point is,” said Barclay at last, “that to be liked by boys you’ve got to like them. If you hold off from them and distrust them and try to wrap yourself up in a cloak of dignity or mystery, they won’t like you because they won’t know you. If you show an interest in them and their interests, you can be as stern with them as justice demands, and they won’t lay it up against you. But if you don’t show an interest—why, you can’t expect them to have an interest in you.”
They turned a bend in the road; the athletic field lay spread out before them. In different parts of it half a dozen football elevens were engaged in practice; on the tennis courts near the athletic house boys in white trousers andsweaters were playing; on the track encircling the football field other boys more lightly clad were sprinting or jogging round in practice for long-distance runs; a few sauntered about as spectators, with hands in their overcoat pockets.
“There,” said Barclay, indicating a group of these idle observers, “you can at least do that.”
“But what’s the use?”
“Make yourself a critic; pick out eight or ten fellows to watch especially. In football or tennis or running. It doesn’t much matter. If they find you’re taking an intelligent interest in what they’re doing, they’ll be pleased. Westby, for instance, is running; he’s entered for the hundred yards in the fall games,—likely to win it, too. Westby’s your greatest trial, isn’t he? Then why don’t you make a point of watching him?—Not too obviously, of course. Come round with me; I’m coaching some of the runners for the next half-hour, and then Collingwood wants me to give his ends a little instruction.”
“Dear me! If I’d only been an athlete instead of a student in college!” sighed Irving whimsically.
“You don’t need to be much of an athlete to coach; I never was so very much,” confided Barclay. “But there are things you can learn by looking on.” They had reached the edge of the track; Barclay clapped his hands. “No, no, Roberts!” The boy who was practising the start for a sprint looked up. “You mustn’t reel all over the track that way when you start; you’d make a foul. Keep your elbows in, and run straight.”
Irving followed Barclay round and tried to grasp the significance of his comments. Dennison came by at a trot.
“Longer stride, Dennison! Your running’s choppy! Lengthen out, lengthen out! That’s better.—I have it!”
Barclay turned suddenly to Irving.
“What?”
“The thing for you to do. We’ll make you an official at the track games next week. That will give you a standing at once—show everybody that you are really a keen follower of sport—or want to be.”
“But what can I do? I suppose an official has to do something.”
“You can be starter. That will put you right in touch with the fellows that are entered.”
“Would I have a revolver? I’ve never fired a gun off in my life.”
“Then it’s time you did. Of course you’ll have a revolver. And you’ll be the noisiest, most important man on the field. That’s what you need to make yourself; wake the fellows up to what you really are!—Now I must be off to my football men; you’d better hang round here and pick up what you can about running. And remember—you’re to act as starter.”
“If you’ll see me through.”
“I’ll see you through.”
Barclay waved his hand and swung off across the field.
TOC
How it was managed Irving did not know, but on the morning of the day when the fall handicap track games were held Scarborough lingered after the Sixth Form Geometry class. Scarborough was president of the Athletic Association.
“We want somebody to act as starter for the races this afternoon, Mr. Upton,” said Scarborough. “I wondered if you would help us out.”
“I should be delighted,” said Irving. “I’ve not had much experience—”
“Oh, it’s easy enough; Mr. Barclay, I guess, can tell you all that has to be done. Thank you very much.”
It was quite as if Irving was the one who was conferring the favor; he liked Scarborough for the way in which the boy had made thesuggestion. He always had liked him, for Scarborough had never given any trouble; he seemed more mature than most of the boys, more mature even than Louis Collingwood. He was not so popular, because he maintained a certain dignity and reserve; even Westby seemed to stand somewhat in awe of Scarborough. He was, as Irving understood, the best oarsman in the school, captain of the school crew, besides being the crack shot-putter and hammer-thrower; if he and Collingwood had together chosen to throw their influence against a new master, life would indeed have been hard. But Scarborough’s attitude had been one of entire indifference; he would stand by and smile sometimes when Westby was engaged in chaffing Irving, and then, as if tired of it, he would turn his back and walk away.
Irving visited Barclay at his house during the noon recess, borrowed his revolver, and received the last simple instructions.
“Make sure always that they’re all properly ‘set’ before you fire. If there’s any foulingat the start, you can call them back and penalize the fellow that fouled—a yard to five yards, according to your discretion. But there’s not likely to be any fouling; in most of the events the fellows are pretty well separated by their handicaps.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Irving. He inspected the revolver. “It’s all loaded?”
“Yes—and there are some blank cartridges. Now, you’re all equipped. If any questions come up—I’ll be down at the field; I’m to be one of the judges and you can call on me.”
At luncheon Irving entered into the talk about the sports to come, without giving any intimation as to the part which he was to play.
“They’ve given Heath only thirty yards over Lou Collingwood,” complained Westby.
“I thought Lou wasn’t going to run, because of football; he hasn’t been practising,” said Carroll.
“I know, but the Pythians have got hold of him, and Dennison’s persuaded him it’shis duty to run. And I guess he’s good enough without practice to win from scratch—giving that handicap!”
“Is Dennison the captain of the Pythian track team?” asked Irving.
“Yes.”
“And who’s captain of yours—the Corinthians?”
“Ned Morrill.”
“Morrill’s going awfully fast in the quarter now,” said Blake. “I timed him yesterday.”
“They’ve handicapped him pretty hard. And he’s apt to be just a shade late in starting—just as Dave Pratt is apt to be just a shade previous,” said Westby. “It ought to be a close race between those two.”
“How much does Pratt get over Morrill?”
“Five yards. And if he steals another yard on the start—”
“Dave wouldn’t steal it,” exclaimed Blake indignantly. “You Corinthians would accuse a man of anything!”
“Oh, I don’t mean that he’d do it intentionally,” replied Westby. “But he’s so overanxious and eager always—and he’s apt to get away without realizing—without the starter realizing.—I wonder who’s going to be starter, by the way?”
Nobody knew; Irving did not enlighten them.
Westby bethought him to ask the same question of Scarborough half an hour later, when they were dressing in the athletic house.
“Mr. Upton has consented to serve,” said Scarborough gravely.
Westby thumped himself down on a bench, dangling one spiked running shoe by the string.
“What! Kiddy!”
“The same,” said Scarborough.
Westby said nothing more; he stooped and put on his shoe, and then he rose and came over to Scarborough, who was untangling a knot. He passed his hand over Scarborough’s head and remarked wonderingly, “Feels perfectly normal—strange—strange!”
Morrill came in from outside, clapping his hands. “Corinthians out for the mile—Heath—Price—Bolton—Edwards—all ready?”
The four named answered by clumping on their spikes to the door.
A moment later came the Pythian call from Dennison; Collingwood and Morse responded. The first event of the day was about to begin. Westby leisurely brushed his hair, which had been disarranged in the process of undressing; he was like a cat in respect of his hair and could not endure to have it rumpled. When it was parted and plastered down to his satisfaction, he slipped a dressing gown on over his running clothes and went out of doors.
The fall track meet was not of the same importance as that in the spring, which was a scratch event. But there were cups for prizes, and there was always much rivalry between the two athletic clubs, the Corinthians and Pythians, as to which could show the most winners. So for that day the football players rested from their practice; many of them in fact were entered in the sports—though, like Collingwood, without any special preparation. The school turned out to look on and cheer;when Westby left the athletic house, he saw the boys lined up on the farther side of the track. The field was reserved for contestants and officials; already many figures in trailing dressing gowns were wandering over it, and off at one side three or four were having a preliminary practice in putting the shot.
But most of those who were privileged to be on the field stood at the farther side, where the start for the mile run was about to take place. Westby saw Randolph and Irving kneeling by the track, measuring off the handicap distances with a tape line; Barclay walked along it, and summoned the different contestants to their places. By the time that Westby had crossed the field, the six runners were at their stations; there was an interval of a hundred and forty yards between Collingwood, at scratch, and young Price of the Fourth Form.
Westby came up and stood near Irving, and fixed him with a whimsical smile.
“Quite a new departure for you, isn’t it, Mr. Upton?” he said.
“I thought I’d come down and see if youcan run as fast as you can talk, Westby.” Irving drew out the revolver, somewhat ostentatiously.
“I hope you won’t shoot any one with that; it looks to me as if you ought to be careful how you handle it, sir.”
“Thank you for the advice, Westby.” Irving turned from the humorist, and raised his voice. “All ready for the mile now! On your marks! Set!”
He held the pistol aloft and fired, and the six runners trotted away. There is nothing very exciting about the start of a mile run, and Irving felt that the intensity with which he had given the commands had been rather absurd. It was annoying to think that Westby had been standing by and finding perhaps in his nervousness a delectable subject for mockery and derision.
Irving walked down the track towards the finish line. He found Barclay there holding the watch.
“You seem to be discharging your arduous duties successfully,” said Barclay.
“Oh, so far.” Irving looked up the track; the foremost runners were rounding the curve at the end of their first lap. He had a moment’s longing to be one of them, stretching his legs like them, trying out his strength and speed on the smooth cinder track against others as eager as himself. He had never done anything of that kind; hardly until now had he ever felt the desire. Why it should come upon him now so poignantly he did not know; but on this warm October afternoon, when the air and the sunshine were as soft as in early September, he wished that he might be a boy again and do the things which as a boy he had never done. To be still young and looking on at the sports and the strife of youth, sports and strife in which he had never borne a part—there was something humiliating and ignoble in the thought. If he could only be for the moment the little Fourth Former there, Price—now flying on in the lead yet casting many fearful backward glances!—Poor child, even Irving’s inexperienced eyes told him that he could never keep that pace.
“Go it, kid!” cried three or four older boys good-naturedly, as Price panted by; and he threw back his head and came down more springily upon his toes, trying in response to the cheer to display his best form.
After him came Bolton and Edwards, side by side; and Collingwood, who started at scratch, had moved up a little on Morse and Heath. Heath was considered the strongest runner in the event for the Corinthians, and they urged him on with cries of “Heath! Heath!” as he made the turn. “You’ve got ’em, Lou!” shouted a group of Pythians the next moment as Collingwood passed. It was early in the race for any great demonstration of excitement.
It was Price whom Irving watched with most sympathy. When he got round on the farther side of the field, his pace had slackened perceptibly; Bolton and Edwards passed him and kept on widening the distance; Morse and Heath passed him at the next turn; and when he came down to the turn in front of the crowd, running heavily, Collingwood overhauled and passed him. It was rather an unfeeling thing for Collingwood to do, right there in front of the crowd, but he was driven to it by force of circumstances; the four other runners were holding on in a way he did not like. The cries of encouragement to him and to Heath were more urgent this time; Bolton and Edwards and Morse had their supporters too.
Westby ran along the field beside Price, and Irving felt a moment’s indignation; was Westby taunting the plucky and exhausted small boy? And then Irving saw that he was not, and at the same instant Barclay turned to him and said,—
“Price is Westby’s young cousin.”
Irving stood near enough to hear Westby say, “Good work, Tom; you set the pace just right; it’ll kill Collingwood. Now drop out.”
Price shook his head and kept on; Westby trotted beside him, saying anxiously, “There’s no use in your wearing yourself all out.” But Price continued at his determined, pounding trot.
“He’s a plucky kid,” said Barclay.
“Rather nice of Westby to take such an interest,” said Irving.
Barclay nodded. From that point on it became a close and interesting race, yet every now and then Irving’s eyes strayed to the small figure toiling farther and farther to the rear—but always toiling. Westby stood on the edge of the green oval, not far away, and when on the third lap Heath came by in the lead, ran with him a few moments and shouted advice and encouragement in his ear; he had to shout, for all the Corinthians were shouting for Heath now, and the Pythians were shouting just as loudly for Collingwood, who, pocketed by the two other Corinthians, Bolton and Edwards, was running fifteen yards behind. Morse, the only Pythian to support Collingwood, was hopelessly out of it.
Westby left Heath and turned his eyes backward. His cousin came to the turn, white-faced, and mouth hanging open; the crowd clapped the boy. “Quit it, Tom!” cried Westby. “Quit it; there’s no sense—” but Price wentpounding on. Westby stood looking after him with a worried frown, and then because there was a sudden shout, he turned to look at the others.
There, on the farther side of the field, Collingwood had at last extricated himself from the pocket; he was running abreast of Bolton; Edwards had fallen behind. Heath was spurting; Collingwood passed Bolton, but in doing so did not lessen Heath’s lead—a lead of fully fifteen yards. So they came to the last turn, to the long straight-away home-stretch; and the crowd clustered by the finish broke and ran up alongside the track to meet them. Every one was yelling wildly—one name or another—“Corinthian!” “Pythian!” “Heath!” “Collingwood!”
Barclay ran across the track with one end of the tape,—the finish line; Mr. Randolph held the other. “Collingwood! Collingwood!” rose the shout; Irving, standing on tiptoe, saw that Collingwood was gaining, saw that at last he and Heath were running side by side; they held together while the crowd ran with themshouting. Irving pressed closer to the track; Westby in his dressing gown was jumping up and down beside him, waving his arms; Irving had to crane his neck and peer, in order to see beyond those loose flapping sleeves. He saw the light-haired Collingwood and the black-haired Heath, coming down with their heads back and their teeth bared and clenched; they were only fifteen yards away. And then Collingwood leaped ahead; it was as if he had unloosed some latent and unconquerable spring, which hurled him in a final burst of speed across the tape and into half a dozen welcoming arms. Heath stumbled after him, even more in need of such friendly services; but both of them revived very quickly when Mr. Barclay, rushing into the crowd with the watch, cried, “Within eight seconds of the record! Both of you fellows will break it next June.”
The other runners came gasping in—and Price was still toiling away in the rear. He had been half a lap behind; he came now into the home-stretch; the crowd began to laugh, and then more kindly, as he drew nearer, toapplaud. They clapped and called, “Good work, Price!” Westby met him about fifty yards from the finish and ran with him, saying, “You’ve got to stick it out now, Tom; you can’t drop out now; you’re all right, old boy—lots of steam in your boiler—you’ll break a record yet.” Irving caught some of the speeches. And so Westby was there when Price crossed the line and collapsed in a heap on the track.
It was not for long; they brought him to with water, and Westby knelt by him fanning his face with the skirt of his dressing gown. Barclay picked the boy up. “Oh, I’m all right, sir,” said Price, and he insisted on being allowed to walk to the athletic house alone,—which he did rather shakily.
Westby flirted the cinders from the skirt of his dressing gown. “Blamed little fool,” he remarked to Carroll and to Allison, who stood by. “Wouldn’t his mother give me the dickens, though, for letting him do that!” But Irving, who heard, knew there was a ring of pride in Westby’s voice—as if Westby feltthat his cousin was a credit to the family. And Irving thought he was.
The sports went on; not many of the runs were as exciting as that with which the afternoon had opened. Irving passed back and forth across the field, helped measure distances for the handicaps, and tried to be useful. His interest had certainly been awakened. Twice in college he had sat on the “bleachers” and viewed indifferently the track contests between Yale and Harvard; he had had a patriotic desire to see his own college win, but he had been indifferent to the performance of the individuals. They had not been individuals to him—merely strange figures performing in an arena. But here, where he knew the boys and walked about among them, and saw the different manifestations of nervousness and excitement, and watched the muscles in their slim legs and arms, he became himself eager and sympathetic. He stood by when Scarborough went on putting the shot after beating all the other competitors—went on putting it in an attempt to break the Schoolrecord. Unconsciously Irving pressed forward to see him as he prepared for the third and last try; unconsciously he stood with lips parted and eyes shining, fascinated by the huge muscles that rose in Scarborough’s brown arm as he poised the weight at his shoulder and heaved it tentatively. And when it was announced that the effort had fallen short by only a few inches, Irving’s sigh of disappointment went up with that of the boys.
At intervals the races were run off—the two-twenty, the quarter-mile, the half-mile, the high hurdles, the low hurdles. Irving started them all without any mishap. The last one, the low hurdles for two hundred and twenty yards, was exciting; the runners were all well matched and the handicaps were small. And so, after firing the revolver, Irving started and ran across the field as hard as he could, to be at the finish; he arrived in time, and stood, still holding the revolver in his hand, while Morrill and Flack and Mason raced side by side to the tape. They finished in that order, not more than a yard apart; and Irving rammedhis revolver into his pocket and clapped his hands and cheered with the Corinthians.
The Pythians were now two points ahead, and there remained only one event, the hundred yards. First place counted five points and second place two; in these games third place did not count. So if a Corinthian should win the hundred yards, the Corinthians would be victorious in the meet by one point.
There were eight entries in the hundred yards—a large number to run without interfering with one another. But the track was wide, and two of the boys had handicaps of ten yards, one had five yards, and one had three. So they were spread out pretty well at the start, and consequently the danger of interference was minimized.
The runners threw off their dressing gowns and took their places. Drake, Flack, Westby, and Mason lined up at scratch,—Westby having drawn the inside place and being flanked by the two Pythians. There was a moment’s pawing of the cinders, and settling down firmly on the spikes.
“Ready, everybody!” cried Irving. He drew the revolver from his pocket and held it aloft. He was as excited as any of the runners; there was the nervous thrill in his voice. “On your marks!” They put their hands to the ground; he ran his eyes along them to see that all were placed. “Set!” There was the instant stiffening of muscles. Then from the revolver came a click. Irving had emptied the six chambers in starting the other races, and had forgotten to reload.
“Just a moment, fellows; ease off!” he called, and they all straightened up and faced towards him questioningly. “Just till I slip in a cartridge,” Irving explained with embarrassment.
Westby turned on him a delighted grin, and said,—
“Can I be of any assistance, Mr. Upton?”
“No, thank you,” said Irving, and having slipped in one cartridge, he began filling the other chambers of the revolver.
“It takes only one shot to start,” observed Westby.
“Yes,” said Irving. “If I fire a second, it will be to call you back because of a false start.—Now then,—all ready once more. On your marks!” They crouched. “Set!” He fired.
Somehow in the start Westby’s foot slipped, and in trying to get clear he lunged against Flack. Irving saw it and instantly fired a second shot, and shouted, “Come back, come back!” The runners heeded the signal and the shout, but as they tiptoed up the track, they looked irritated.
“Westby, you fouled Flack.” Irving spoke with some asperity. “I shall have to set you back a yard.”
“It was an accident,” Westby replied warmly. “My foot slipped. I couldn’t help myself.”
“But it was a foul,” declared Irving, “and I shall have to set you back a yard.”
“It was an accident, I tell you,” repeated Westby.
“If it was an accident, you oughtn’t to set him back,” said Drake, his fellow Corinthian.
“It’s in the starter’s discretion,” spoke up Mason, the Pythian.
“The penalty’s a yard,” affirmed Irving.
Westby shut his lips tight and looked angrily contemptuous. Irving measured the distance. “There,” he said, “you will start there.”
Westby took the place behind the others without a word.
“Ready now! On your marks!”
The pistol cracked, and this time they all got away safely, and Irving raced after them over the grass.
From the crowd at the finish came the instant shout of names; out of the short choppy cries two names especially emerged, “Flack! Flack! Flack!” “Westby! Westby! Westby!” Those two were the favorites for the event. Irving saw the scratch men forge ahead, and mingle with the handicap runners; in the confusion of flying white figures he could not see who were leading. But the tumult near the finish grew wild; arms and caps were swung aloft, boys were leaping up and down; the red-haired Dennison ran along the edge of the track, waving his arms; Morrill on the other side did the same thing; the next moment therace had ended in a tumultuous rush of shouting boys.