CHAPTER X
HOW A RACE WAS WON
It was a bright, clear day in early summer when the athletic contests of Oak Hall came off. All the academy boys assembled for the affair, and with them were a number of folks from the town, and also some students from the Rockville Military Academy, a rival institution of learning, as my old readers already know.
The contests began with pole vaulting and putting the shot, and, much to the surprise of all, Chip Macklin won out over half a dozen boys slightly larger than himself. Luke Watson also won one of the contests, and the banjo player and Macklin were roundly applauded by their friends.
"Dave Porter coached Macklin," said one small boy to another. "I saw him doing it. I can tell you, Chip is picking up."
"Yes," was the answer. "And he doesn't seem to be afraid of that bully of a Plum any more, either."
After the shot-putting and vaulting came the quarter-mile dash, for which Ben had entered.
"Go in and win, Ben!" cried Dave, to his old chum. "I know you can do it if you'll only try."
"Nat Poole will win that race!" came roughly from Gus Plum, who stood near.
"Hi, catch the ball, Gus!" sang out Nat Poole, from across the field, and threw a ball in Ben's direction. Plum leaped for the sphere, bumped up against Ben, and both went down, with the bully on top.
"Plum, you did that on purpose!" cried Roger, who was close by. "Shame on you!"
"Shut up! I didn't do it on purpose!" howled the bully, arising. "Say that again and I'll knock you down!"
"You certainly did do it on purpose," said Phil, stepping up quickly. "You ought to be reported for it."
"Aw, dry up!" muttered Plum, and walked away.
When Ben arose he could scarcely get his breath. He was not hurt, but the wind had been knocked completely out of him.
"I—I don't know if I can ru-run or not!" he gasped. "He came—came down on me like a ton of bricks!"
"Wait, I'll speak to Mr. Dale about this," said Dave, and ran off. As a result of the interview the contest was delayed ten minutes—another taking its place—much to the disgust of Gus Plum and Nat Poole, both of whom had reckoned on putting Ben out of the contest.
At the start of the quarter-mile dash Nat Poole and two others forged ahead, but Ben was on his mettle, and, setting his teeth, soon began to close up the gap.
"Go it, Ben!" yelled Dave. "You can win, I know it!"
"Sail right past 'em!" came from the senator's son. "Hump yourself, old man!"
"Make 'em take the dust!" added Phil.
Ben hardly heard the words, for he was now running with all his strength. He passed first one boy and then another, and then came abreast of Nat Poole. So they moved on to within a dozen paces of the finish. Then Ben made a leap ahead, and so did one of the other contestants, and Ben came in the winner, with the other boy second, and Nat Poole third. A roar went right across the field.
"Ben Basswood wins!"
"Jake Tatmon is second!"
"Nat Poole came in only third, and he boasted he was going to win, sure!"
As soon as the race was over, Nat Poole sneaked out of sight, behind some friends. He was bitterly disappointed, and could scarcely keep from running away altogether.
"You didn't fix him at all," he whispered to Gus Plum, when he got the chance. "He was in prime condition."
"I did the best I could—you saw him go down, with me on top of him," retorted the bully. "Now, don't you forget what you promised," he added, sharply.
"Oh, I'll keep my word, don't fear," growled Nat Poole. "I hate Dave Porter too much to let him win!"
There were some standing and running jumps, in which Roger and Phil won second and third places, and then came the hurdle race, in which Dave was to participate. In the meantime Nat Poole had shed his track outfit and donned his regular clothes and a rather heavy pair of walking shoes.
"Please let me pass," said he to the crowd in which Dave was standing, and, without warning, brought one of his heavy shoes down smartly on Dave's light, canvas foot-covering.
"Ouch!" cried the country boy, and gave Poole a quick shove. "What do you mean by stepping on my foot in that fashion, Nat Poole?"
"Oh, excuse me," said the Crumville aristocrat, coolly. "Didn't know it was your foot, Porter, or I shouldn't have stepped on it for anything."
"You've just about lamed me!" gasped Dave. The pain was still intense.
"Dave, I believe this is a put-up job!" said Ben, quickly. "Plum agreed to lame me so that Poole could win, and now Poole is trying the same trick on you for Plum's benefit."
"No such thing!" roared Nat Poole, but his face grew fiery red. "It was a pure accident. I don't have to lame Porter. Plum will win, anyhow."
"It certainly looks suspicious," said Shadow Hamilton. "He hadn't any business to force his way through our crowd."
"Oh, don't you put in your oar, you old sleep-walker!" growled Nat Poole, and then hurried off and out of sight behind the gymnasium. At the parting shot Shadow became pale, but nobody seemed to notice the remark.
"Can you go ahead?" asked Phil, of Dave.
"I think so," was the answer. "But that was a mean thing to do. He came near crushing my little toe."
Fortunately, several of the hurdles had not been properly placed, and it took some little time to arrange them properly. During that interval Roger dressed the injured foot for his chum, which made it feel much better.
"Are you all ready?" was the question put to the contestants, as they lined up. Then came a pause, followed by the crack of a revolver, and they were off.
The encounter with Nat Poole had nerved Dave as he had seldom been nerved before. Ben had won, and he made up his mind to do the same, regardless of the fact that Gus Plum and one of the other boys in the race were bigger than himself. He took the first and second hurdles with ease, and then found himself in a bunch, with Plum on one side and a lad named Cashed on the other.
"Whoop her up, Cashod!" he yelled out. "Come on, and show the others what we can do!"
"Right you are, Porter!" was the answering cry.
"Not much!" puffed out Gus Plum. "I'm the winner here!"
"Rats!" answered Dave. "You'll come in fifth, Plum. You're winded already!" And then, with a mighty effort, he leaped to the front, with Cashod on his heels. "Poole didn't do your dirty work well enough," he flung back over his shoulder as he took his fourth hurdle.
The taunts angered Gus Plum, and this made him lose ground, until, almost before he knew it, the third pupil in the race dashed past him. Then he found himself neck-and-neck with the fifth contestant.
"Here they come!"
"Dave Porter is ahead, with Cashod second!"
"Collins has taken third place!"
"Plum and Higgins are tied for fourth place!"
"Not much! Higgins is ahead!"
"And there goes Sanderson ahead of Plum, too! 
Dave cleared the last hurdle and came in a winner.
Page 87.
Phew! Wonder if that is what Plum calls winning? He had better study his dictionary!"
With a mighty leap Dave cleared the last hur dle, and came in a winner. Then the others finished in the order named, excepting that Gus Plum was so disgusted that he refused to take the last hurdle, for which some of the boys hissed him, considering it unsportsmanlike, which it was.
"My shoe got loose," said the bully, lamely. "If it hadn't been for that, I should have won." But nobody believed him.
"Dave, the way you went ahead was simply great," cried Phil. "It was as fine a hurdle race as I ever saw."
"Yes, and he helped me, too," said Cashod. "I was thinking Plum would go ahead, until Porter laughed at him. It was all right," and Cashod bobbed his head to show how satisfied he was.
If Nat Poole had been disgusted Gus Plum was more so, and he lost no time in disappearing from public gaze. The two cronies met back of the gymnasium.
"You hurt Porter about as much as I hurt Basswood," Plum grumbled. "If you can't do better than that next time, you had better give up trying."
"Oh, 'the pot needn't call the kettle black,'" retorted Poole. "You made just as much of a mess of it as I did. We'll be the laughing stock of the Porter crowd now."
"If they laugh at me, I'll punch somebody's nose. As it is, I've got an account to settle with Porter, and I am going to settle it pretty quick, too."
"What do you mean?"
"He jeered me while we were in the race. He has got to take it back, or there is going to be trouble," muttered the bully, clenching his fists.
In his usual bragging way Gus Plum let several students know that he "had it in" for Dave, and this reached the country boy's ears the next day directly after school.
"I am not afraid of him," said Dave, coolly. "If he wants to find me, he knows where to look for me."
Shortly after this Dave and some of his chums took a walk down to the boathouse dock. There they ran into Plum, Poole, and several of their admirers.
"Here is Porter now!" said one boy, in a low voice. "Now is your chance, Gus."
"Yes, let us see you do what you said," came from another.
Plum had not expected an encounter so soon, but there seemed to be no way of backing out, so he advanced quickly upon Dave, and clenched his fists.
"You can fight, or apologize," he said, loudly.
"Apologize, to you?" queried Dave, coolly.
"Yes, to me, and at once," blustered the bully.
"I am not apologizing to you, Plum."
"Then you'll fight."
"If you hit me, I shall defend myself."
"Hit you? If I sail into you, you'll think a cyclone struck you. If you know where you are wise, you'll apologize."
"On the contrary, Plum, I want to let you and all here know what I think of you. You are a bully, a braggart—and a coward!"
Dave's eyes were flashing dangerously, and as he gazed steadily at Plum, the latter backed away a step.
"You—you dare to talk to me like that?"
"Why not? Nobody ought to be afraid to tell the truth."
"Oh, don't stand gassing!" burst out Nat Poole. "Give it to him, Gus—give it to him good and hard."
"I will!" cried the bully, and making a quick leap, he delivered a blow straight for Dave's face.
Had the blow landed as intended, the country boy would undoubtedly have sustained a black eye. But Dave ducked slightly, and the bully's fist shot past his ear. Then Dave drew off and hit Plum a stinging blow on the chin.
"A fight! A fight!" was the rallying cry from all sides, and in a twinkling a crowd assembled to see the impromptu contest.