For the Honor of the School: A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport

“I almost had him!” he panted, “but he doubled just off the point and he’s gone back down the river. Where’s Dave?”

The two shouted loudly, and an answering hail came from near at hand. The next instant Dave felt his way cautiously up and fell into Wayne’s lap.

“Did you see anything of him?” he gasped. Don repeated what he had told Wayne.

“Where did you say he turned? At the point under Academy Building?”

“Yes,” said Don.

“Why, you idiot, that was me!” Wayne laughed and Don returned, a trifle crossly:

“Well, why didn’t you sing out, then?”

“Because I didn’t suppose you were chasing me. I thought you were just following. I never caught sight of the fellow after he darted out of the bushes and struck up the river. He was gone in a second.”

“Well, you won’t catch him,” said Wayne. “He’s got home by this time.” And he recounted his adventures. Dave whistled.

“He was a bully skater, anyhow. I’ll bet it was Paddy!”

“Nonsense!” answered Don. “He wasn’t built like Paddy.”

“No, he wasn’t one of the fellows,” Wayne said. “He was a man, not very tall, and he had a muffler wound round his neck. And – and the funny thing about it is, that it seems as though I had seen him before somewhere.”

“Well, let’s get these silly skates off and hurry up about it,” said Don disgustedly. “It must be getting late, and I don’t want to have to feed on crackers and sardines the way I had to the other night. And we must get permission to take the skates to the village after supper.”

“Anyhow,” said Wayne, as he tugged at his straps, “I’m sure of one thing; and that is, if I see that fellow to-morrow I’ll recognize him.”

“Same here,” responded Dave.

Wayne found a note from Carl Gray, together with Don’s remodeled golf balls, on his table when he returned to his room after supper. Don examined the balls with interest.

“Pretty good work, I call it, Wayne. They look about as good as new and have a dandy coat of paint on ’em.”

Wayne read the note. “Friend Gordon,” it ran, “here are those balls of Cunningham’s. Some of them are not done very well. They were the first I tried, and didn’t mold so well as I’d like to have had them. I wish you’d not let him pay for them, because they’re not very good and you’ve helped me a lot.” (“Of course I’ll pay for them,” interrupted Don.) “I’ve remolded over forty balls so far, and have nearly twice that many to do yet. I thought you’d like to know how I was getting on. I sent some money home to-day and am going to pay you Saturday. I fixed Greene’s cleek, and I think it as good as new; and I have three more clubs to mend. If business keeps on increasing I’ll have to open a shop, I guess. Couldn’t find you, so write this instead. Yours, Gray. P. S. —Thank you.”

The last sentence was much underscored, and Wayne grinned as he threw the note aside.

“Decent chap, that Gray,” he said.

“I can’t say as to that,” answered Don, “but I do know that he’s a good hand at remodeling golf balls.”

CHAPTER XII

THE FACULTY RACE

When Paddy awoke the next morning his first act was to throw back the blinds and look eagerly at the thermometer hanging outside the window. It recorded fourteen above zero, and he gave a grunt of satisfaction as he scurried to the fireplace, raked the embers together, and added a fresh log. There was no likelihood of either snow or rain marring the skating surface of the river, and the state of the thermometer precluded a thaw. Paddy was in the best of spirits all the forenoon, as he and Wallace and the other members of the committee scurried from the school grounds to the village, and from the village to the scene of the coming contest on the river.

The “skating carnival” had been proclaimed far and wide; its fame had even reached the neighboring towns along the Hudson, and at two o’clock the boat-house float and steps and the river bank, as well as the frozen surface thereabouts, was thronged with townspeople from Hillton, Euston Point, and other hamlets. Of course the academy turned out in full force; the junior class attended in a body prepared to aid their champions by every feat of lung and throat. A clear stretch of smooth ice about ten yards from the shore had been roped off for the track whereon the sprints and a hurdle race were to be contested, while a series of red flags – borrowed from the golf club – marked the course of the half-mile and mile events. There was an appearance of dignity and importance about the scene that pleased Paddy mightily, and made him carry his bright blue badge with great pride.

Dave, with his usual hopefulness, had entered for everything for which he was eligible. Don was down for the hurdle race and a half-mile event, and Wayne had entered for the mile race for novices. Paddy was to take part in the class event and the mile. The afternoon was a perfect one for the sport. The sun shone dimly at times, the breeze, too light to interfere with speed, was nipping cold, and the ice was in fine condition. Professor Beck had consented to act as referee, and several of the other professors wore judges’ badges and tried earnestly to understand their duties.

There were many entries for the half-mile handicap and a lower middle-class fellow won it easily from scratch. In the mile race for novices Wayne finished well up in the first crowd and was quite elated. Both Paddy and Dave were entered in the mile event, and the former won from a field of some twenty fellows by a generous ten yards. Dave struggled along bravely and cheerfully, and seemed well satisfied with sixth place. When the class race was called twelve boys stood on the mark, three entries from each class, and the juniors gathered in a body at the starting place and cheered their men and their class loudly and tirelessly until the contestants sped away over the shining course, their runners ringing musically on the frosty air. Dave was one of the chosen three representing the seniors, Paddy held the hopes of the upper middle class, and the lower middle banked on the fleet youth who had previously won the half-mile handicap. The juniors placed implicit faith in a small and wiry boy who looked scarcely over thirteen years of age. The twelve kept well together for the first of the three laps constituting the mile, but when the flags were reached the junior champion sprang to the front, followed by the three senior class fellows, and the balance strung themselves back along the course, Paddy laboring manfully to hold himself in for the last half lap. As the skaters sped by the point where Wayne and Don were watching, the former recognized one of the lower middle-class entries as Carl Gray, and drew Don’s attention to him.

“Gray?” said Don. “Oh, the fellow that comes to see you every week on that mysterious business? Well, he skates well, doesn’t he? He ought to finish pretty decently, I should think. Paddy’s just dying to ‘go up head,’ isn’t he? And look at old David; wouldn’t you think he was an ice wagon on runners? Poor old chap! I believe if somebody got up a flying match he’d enter.”

“He ought to have known better than to have got in the lead so early in the race,” said Wayne.

“Well, I guess he thought that if he didn’t get in front now he never would,” laughed Don. “But he’ll not be there after this round.”

And he wasn’t. When the last spin over the course began, it seemed as though Dave stood still, for the entire field of skaters, with one exception, sped by him ere the remaining distance was one fourth traversed. The single exception was the small junior who had forced the skating and who was now too used up to keep his lead. A hundred yards from the finish eight of the ten leaders were so closely bunched as to render guessing the winner a difficult feat, and Wayne and Don, shouting loudly for Paddy, didn’t know who had won until the judges gave out the result a moment later: Breen, first; Gray, second; Wallace, third. The upper middle had captured first place, the lower middle second, and the seniors had to be content with the third prize. Dave and the small junior fought stubbornly for precedence and the latter won by a yard, and Dave was enthusiastically presented with a piece of ice, in lieu of a booby prize, by a delegation headed by Don.

Meanwhile a flight of six hurdles, two and a half feet in height, had been put in place, and Don and three other fellows – one of them Greene – were on the mark. Hurdle racing on skates is a difficult accomplishment, even when low hurdles are used, and success depends not alone on speed. The contestant who has not undergone the hardest practice over the bars and learned to take them in much the same manner as does the hurdler who is running on cinders, might as well save his breath, and possibly a hard fall. Of the four contestants entered Don was acknowledged the best, since his long training at track hurdling enabled him to perform on ice in beautiful style. Although not so speedy a skater as Greene, he was a more perfect hurdler, and he was looked upon as the winner. The jumps were placed thirty yards apart, and the entire distance to be raced from starting line to finish was two hundred and ten yards. At the report of the pistol the four started well together. Conroy, a lower middle-class fellow, took the lead and covered the twenty yards intervening between the line and the first hurdle at fine speed, but only to come an inglorious cropper at the first leap and to find himself utterly out of the race ere it was well begun. Greene, and Jackson, the fourth man, took their hurdle side by side, and were halfway to their second before Don was in the air. At the third hurdle, however, Jackson was behind, and Don and Greene were rising for the jump at the same moment. And now form over the obstacles began to tell, for while Greene was able to cover every intervening twenty yards at a faster pace than Don, the latter gained ground at every hurdle, taking off at his full speed and in each case barely topping the wood, while Greene perceptibly decreased his speed before each leap and always jumped from three to six inches higher than was necessary.

Cheers for the boys filled the air as they raced for the last hurdle, Don a bare foot in advance of Greene, and Jackson just taking his fifth jump. At the sixth hurdle Greene’s performance was even clumsier than before, and Don’s skates clanged down on the ice at the very moment the former was rising to the jump. But in another moment the two were again almost side by side, for on the level Greene’s speed told, and it was nip and tuck to the tape. But Don managed to hold the slight advantage gained at the last hurdle and Greene accepted second place by the narrowest sort of a margin.

“If you were as fast on skates as I am, or I was as crack a hurdler as you are,” he told Don laughingly, “one of us would be a wonder.”

A half-mile straight-away race followed, but Don, who had entered for this event, stayed out, being too winded to do himself justice, and the race was won by the small junior, who had somehow found his speed again. And then the event of the day was called, the great faculty race, in which Professor Wheeler and a mysterious Unknown were to compete over the mile course. Conjecture as to the identity of the Unknown was still rife, and as Professor Wheeler, on a fine new pair of full-clamp skates, advanced to the starting line, the throng watched and waited impatiently for the other competitor. All the professors were present, even “Turkey,” and not a few wore skates. It might be any one of them. Professor Beck skated to the line, and a murmur of “It’s Beck!” arose, only to be drowned by a second murmur of “No, it’s Longworth!” as the junior instructor in mathematics also approached.

“Who is the other competitor, sir?” asked Wallace, who was to act as starter. The principal looked toward the shore.

“He is coming now, Mr. Starter,” he answered smilingly. The throng about the line followed his gaze and gasped in wondering amazement. Skating toward them, and leaving a ripple of amused laughter in his wake, his head covered with a fur cap whose lappets were drawn down over his ears, with a long woolen muffler wrapped about his throat and a pair of old-fashioned wooden skates strapped to his feet, came – Professor Durkee!

A moment of silent surprise was broken by a laugh that quickly resolved itself into a loud cheer. On the outskirts of the crowd, where they could not be seen, impish juniors doubled themselves up with laughter. More dignified seniors shouted hoarsely to keep from following the example, and even Professor Beck smiled broadly at the odd figure of the principal’s rival for honors. Whether Professor Durkee was aware of the sentiments aroused by his appearance none can say; if he was he carefully concealed the fact; and after a few explanations from the referee the two professors stood on the mark, silence fell, the pistol banged, and the great faculty race was on!

Professor Wheeler sped away up river at a pace that soon dropped the English instructor yards behind. But fellows who knew the length of a mile on ice shook their heads and predicted that the pace was too good to last. Perhaps Professor Durkee thought so too, for he made no effort to win the side of the flying principal, but skated serenely on, his coat tails and the ends of his knitted gray muffler flying in the wind.

“Isn’t he a sight?” asked Don, with a grin.

“Oh, he’s something to dream of,” giggled Paddy. “But he can skate, can old ‘Turkey’! He has a style like – like – a scarecrow.”

At that moment Dave flew frantically up.

“What do you think?” he gasped. “It was ‘Turkey’ – ”

But the words were taken out of his mouth by Wayne, who slid out of the crowd and embraced Paddy to keep from falling.

“Say, fellows, it was Professor Durkee that we saw on the river last night.”

“And chased!” supplemented Dave.

“Get out!” cried Don. “Who said so? How do you know?”

“Recognized him!” answered Wayne. “Knew him as soon as I set eyes on him. I told you last night that it was a man, and that he wore a muffler thing around his neck. Remember?”

“And I know too,” said Dave. “He looked just as he does now when I saw him.”

“Well, the desavin critter!” exclaimed Paddy.

“I’ll just bet it was him!” said Don. “He had been practicing and didn’t want us to see him.”

“Yes; and I’ll bet he’ll beat ‘Wheels’ all hollow!”

The boys crowded their way to a place by the course. Far up the ice the flying figures were making the turn and heading back to the starting point. It was difficult to discern which was ahead, but presently as they drew nearer Professor Wheeler was seen to have maintained his lead of about twenty yards. Cheers, loud and prolonged, greeted the skaters as they made the turn and commenced the second round.

“Go it, ‘Turkey’!” yelled the throng, all forgetful of respect in the excitement of the moment.

“Bully for ‘Wheels’!” cried others, and only ceased when Professor Beck was seen smiling broadly at Professor Longworth. Up the river once more sped the racers, the ludicrous figure of the English professor maintaining its position behind the principal and never gaining or losing. The latter was slackening speed a little now, and many fellows were remarking, “I told you so!” in superior tones. But Professor Durkee refused to take advantage of the other’s lagging, and as they turned at the flag and headed back, the watchers saw that the relative positions were still the same. Down toward the starting point they came again, and again cheers welcomed them. Professor Wheeler had plainly overtaxed himself in the first lap and was now trying to recuperate. He was a very graceful skater, using a long strike and handling his feet easily and well. Professor Durkee, on the other hand, possessed no style, kept his body quite rigid, and took rapid, short strokes. And what, with his flying coat tails and muffler and his wildly swinging arms with a red mitten at the extremity of each, he was in truth a strange and humorous spectacle.

Around the flag they went, the principal still holding his lead of twenty yards, but looking a bit worried, and the English professor, his queer old face solemn and inscrutable under the fur cap, seemingly content to let the other keep the advantage. It was the last lap now, and as the two drew away upstream champions of each grew loud and excited in their claims.

“Why, ‘Wheels’ can leave him at the flag if he wants to!”

“Course he can. He’s just letting ‘Turkey’ down easy.”

“Oh, can he? Well, just you wait and see! Why, ‘Wheels’ is done for already; he’s plumb beat!”

And so on, while the contestants reached the farther end of the course and made the turn. And now the spectators thronged the ropes that guarded the finish, cheering excitedly. Down the ice sped the skaters; a quarter of the remaining distance was traversed when a shout arose.

“Durkee’s closing up!”

And so he was. His feet were moving so fast over the frozen surface that they were just a blur to the sight, his coat tails were flapping gloriously, and he was closing up the gap! But the principal was yet game, and with a hundred yards or so still to cover and with Professor Durkee close behind him he spurted again to the front and had put several more yards between him and his rival ere the latter was aware of it. And then – well, then the red mittens moved so fast hither and thither that they looked like a streak of fire, the muffler ends stood out straight in the wind, the coat tails followed suit, the wooden skates bit and clanged on the ice, the little professor became a small cyclone, and the watchers held their breaths, too astonished to even cheer.

Now the coat tails were even with the principal, now they had passed him and were flapping derisively in his face, and now they were far beyond reach. And then amid the delighted acclaim of hundreds “Turkey” crossed the line like a specially constructed whirlwind and won the faculty race by a dozen long yards!

CHAPTER XIII

IN TRAINING

“Candidates for the track team report to Professor Beck, at the gymnasium, at 3.45 P. M., Saturday, February 12th.

“Donald Cunningham, Captain.”

This notice was posted on the bulletin board in Academy Building one morning, and fellows on their way to recitations read it and became suddenly aware that, from an athletic standpoint at least, spring had begun. From that same standpoint winter is a short-lived season in Hillton – a mere ten weeks between the last football game and the call for track team candidates; a brief space in which the hockey players pose as heroes, the Hillton and St. Eustace chess clubs prepare for and hold their annual contest, the debating club membership grows, the school librarian is for once busy all day long, and the juniors conduct mimic battles and sieges on the green, their citadels and ammunition both constructed of snow. And then some morning while the mercury still lingers affectionately about the zero mark a little square of paper appears on the bulletin board, and, officially at least, the vernal season is ushered in.

This year, as usual, with the appearance of the call for track team candidates a veritable epidemic of athletic enthusiasm swept over the Academy. The crew candidates, who for weeks past had been quietly exercising with chest weights and dumb-bells and running around the track without occasioning any particular notice, now went to work on the rowing machines and were daily viewed by a throng of their fellows. The baseball players congregated in the cage and pitched and batted and slid about on the canvas to an accompaniment of low-voiced criticism from chaps who pressed their noses through the wire meshes for a half-hour at a time. Golfers polished up their clubs, bought brand new books on the sport, and were to be found practicing putting in the dormitory halls. A few lads flocked together in warm studies and talked of wickets and overs and bowls, and tried hard to convince themselves and each other that they were enthusiastic cricketers. And all the while the ice on the river was thick and hard, the wind swept across the green in wintry gusts, and the snow was piled high on either side of the walks.

But if the green and the campus and the frozen paths were deserted, the gymnasium, especially after two o’clock in the afternoon, was a busy scene. Of the fifty-odd boys who reported for the track team, forty-two were put to training. With most of them the new work was disappointingly similar to that gone through with all winter. The chest weights banged up and down, the rings swung about under the high roof, the ladders creaked and bent between their braces, and the dumb-bells and Indian clubs swung faster than ever. But many of the candidates were put to work on the wooden track in the hour when twilight filled the gymnasium with strange and grotesque shadows, and now and then some candidate for honors with the sixteen-pound shot was allowed to toss a leather-covered sphere about the place, to the imminent danger of everybody’s toes.

Professor Beck, from a quiet, even-voiced, little gentleman, suddenly became a commanding figure, who was here, there, and everywhere, and whose least word was like a trumpet sound. Boys who were not candidates for the track team or the baseball team or the crew or something – and there appeared to be few of them in those days – were not admitted to the floor of the gymnasium after a certain hour in the afternoon, and so congregated at the little walled-off inclosure by the entrance and scoffed or praised, envied or admired, to their heart’s content and to the despair of the performers.

One afternoon, a few days subsequent to the beginning of the track candidates’ training, the gymnasium was more than usually full and noisy. The crew was hard at work in the rowing room, a half dozen fellows were trotting about the track, and the boys under Don were putting in a preliminary ten minutes at the weights. Taken as a whole they were a fine-looking lot, though to the uninitiated many would have appeared too slight in build for athletic success. These were the sprinters and hurdlers and those of the new candidates who were desirous of becoming such. They showed speed rather than strength and were in some cases slender to a degree. It was not difficult to distinguish the new candidates from the experienced, even when they were in gymnasium attire; the matter of chest development alone afforded unmistakable proof. In the same way the jumpers and pole vaulters could be picked out. A greater development of the chest muscles was noticeable, resultant on the short, sharp effort required in their work. Of the several boys present who had been members of the last year’s team as long-distance runners, three at least indicated their specialty by their build. Their chests were quite as highly developed as those of the jumpers, but the development was more general; their tasks required staying power as well as strength of lung. Of the performers with the heavy weights, Dave Merton was a fair example. Both the twelve-pound hammer and the shot belong of right to athletes who have weight in their favor, since it is only by putting their weight into the effort that success with hammer or shot may be hoped for. The exercise brings into play the muscles of the back and loins, widens the body across the shoulders, and gives plenty of room to the heart and lungs. To a less extent the legs are benefited and the entire muscular system gains in elasticity.

Professor Beck emerged from the rowing room and cast his gaze over the gymnasium floor, letting his eyes rest first on one and then another of the exercisers at the weights.

“That will do at the weights, boys,” he announced presently. He referred to a book which he took from his pocket. “Morris and Graham and Gordon, to the running track and do a half mile; and by the way, Graham, don’t labor under the impression that you’re trying to catch a train; take your pace from Morris. You too, Gordon; you run too fast. Jumpers and sprinters had better get in some work with the dumb-bells. I’ll have a look at you presently. The rest of you know your work, I think.”

He turned to Don, and the two discussed the candidates for some time, while Wayne joined the men on the track and proceeded to put twelve laps behind him at a moderate pace. Wayne’s presence among the track team candidates requires some explanation. Continued study with but little outdoor recreation had begun to create a listlessness that had surprised and worried him. Don, when consulted, explained the matter in very few words.