BY the middle of the month the Track Team comprised twenty members, several less than coach and captain had hoped for. By a good deal of intricate scheming those twenty were apportioned over the seven track and five field events so that in each Clearfield would be represented by not less than three wearers of the purple. In many cases a second was the best that Captain Felker dared hope for, in some cases a third would be all he expected. A number of the fellows were being coached in things they had never dreamed of undertaking. George Tupper, for instance, who had run fourth last spring in the 440-yards, had been prevailed on to drop that event and go in for the mile, since the four-forty was represented by three more promising performers and the mile run was left to Toll and Smith. In the same way, Thad Brimmer, whose specialty was the weights, was induced to make a third competitor in the high jump. Lanny White, who was entered for both dashes and the high hurdles, entered for the low hurdles also. Soper, a fair sprinter, developed remarkably as a broad-jumper.
Of course there were disappointments at first in what Arthur Beaton humorously called "intensive track athletics." That is, several fellows selected for events that were new to them failed absolutely to show any ability and had to be switched to something else. Neither Coach Presser nor Captain Felker hoped to develop extraordinary talent in this way. What they desired to do was to be represented in each event by at least three contestants and so possibly gain here or there a point or two that would otherwise go to Springdale. When the final arrangement was completed there were four entries for the 100-yards dash, the 220-yards dash, the hammer-throw and the shot-put, and three for each of the other events on the program. Lanny White was to attempt more than any other member of the team, being down for four events, and several others were down for three. Naturally, Lanny did not expect to be placed in each of his races, but there was always the chance of crowding a Springdale fellow out in the trials. In the dashes Lanny was fairly certain of getting a first and a second, if not two firsts, and he hoped to get placed in the high hurdles. Perry Hull had attempted to show form as a broad-jumper, but after a week of it had convinced Skeet that that was not his forte. In the end he was slated for the sprints only.
Perry had his second time-trial on the seventeenth of the month and Skeet announced the time as 10 3/5 for the hundred and 24 3/5 for the two-twenty. Neither performance was remarkable, but Perry had a strong belief in his ability to better them both; and, in any case, he had performed as well as any of his teammates except Lanny and Kirke in the hundred and Lanny in the two-twenty. Lanny told him he had done finely and assured him that in another fortnight he would be able to cut another fifth of a second from his time. "And if you do," said Lanny, "you'll stand as good a chance for second place as any of the fellows. I don't think that Springdale has a sprinter who can do better than two-fifths this year. It will be a corking race for second place!"
Perry was encouraged and his enthusiasm arose to new heights. For the next week he clamored for another time-trial, but Skeet denied him. Instead, he insisted on Perry working well over his distance for days after that trial, and neither he nor the other sprinters were once allowed to show their real speed.
Meanwhile, Perry was observing such strict rules of diet that Mrs. Hull was in despair. Perry's natural liking for pie and cake was sternly repressed and his mother became frequently quite impatient and said that training was a piece of foolishness and that Perry would soon be only skin and bones unless he ate more. There seemed to be some justification for her fears, for the steady work on the cinders was certainly carving Perry pretty fine. He had not been by any means fat before, but now he was getting down to his muscles, and one morning when his mother surprised him on his way to the bath and viewed the slimness of his legs as revealed by a flapping dressing-robe, she sent up a wail of alarm and forthwith sought the Doctor, declaring that "this running just had to be stopped or Perry would starve to death before their eyes! He looks right now," she said, "like one of those Indian famine victims!" But the Doctor declined to become concerned. "He's better off as he is, Mother," he replied. "A fifteen-year-old boy doesn't need fat."
"But he's not eating anything!"
"You mean," the Doctor chuckled, "he's not eating pie and cake and a mess of sweet truck. I've failed to notice, though, that he has ever refused a third helping of meat and vegetables lately! Suppose, instead of pie and chocolate layer-cake, you make some simple puddings, my dear; tapioca, rice, corn-starch. I guess he will eat those all right; and they'll be a lot better for him."
Mrs. Hull retired unconvinced, but afterwards forbore to predict disaster when Perry refused pie. Experiments with the simple desserts the Doctor had suggested were fairly successful. Perry referred to a diet-list that was pinned beside his bureau and relaxed to the extent of partaking sparingly of the puddings.
Fudge, too, was denying himself prescribed dishes, although with far less philosophy than was displayed by his friend. Pie with Fudge was a passion, and cakes containing oozing jelly or soft icing filled his soul with beatitude. When all else failed, he fell back on doughnuts. To be cut off from these things was a woeful experience to Fudge. Once he had "trained" for the Football Team, but that training had been a very sketchy performance; nothing at all like the awful self-denial he practiced—or, at least, strove to practice—now.
"I don't mind not eating starchy things," he confided to Perry one day, "but this breaking away from the table when the pie comes on is fierce! I haven't had a hunk of pie," he added drearily, "for three weeks, and there's a place right here"—he laid a sympathetic hand over the third button of his vest—"that won't be happy until it gets it!"
However, to make up for the discomforts of dieting, he had the satisfaction of accomplishing Herculean stunts with the twelve-pound hammer. Partridge already viewed him as a probable point-winner, for he had nearly equaled Falkland's best performance and had out-distanced Thad Brimmer by four feet. It was well that Partridge, and Guy Felker, too, dealt out praise and encouragement to Fudge, for the temptation to backslide in the matter of pie dogged him incessantly. There was one tragic night when he lay in bed and fought for all of an hour against the haunting vision of three raisin pies sitting side by side in the pantry downstairs. What eventually vanquished temptation was the knowledge that if he stole down and cut into one of those pies his mother would know it. And after all the fine-sounding speeches he had made to her on the subject of denying one's appetite for the sake of the School, he hadn't the heart for it.
Now that the School had "taken up" athletics it was a lot more fun practicing. Whereas heretofore scarcely a dozen fellows had watched the performances of the Track Team, now the daily practice was almost as popular as baseball and squads of critical but enthusiastic youths stood about the track and applauded and urged on their friends. The hammer-throw was sufficiently spectacular to attract a large gallery every afternoon, and I'm not denying that Fudge strutted a little when, having tossed the weight far away across the field, he allowed some admiring acquaintance to help him on with the crimson dressing-robe he affected.
Over at Springdale great things were said of the local Track Team, and the Springdale paper even now predicted victory. Guy Felker and the others studied that paper every day and compared what they learned of the Blue team's performances with what they knew of their own, sometimes with satisfaction and more often with alarm. There was no disguising the fact that Springdale would send a team more than ordinarily strong in the quarter, half and mile events and in the jumps. The Blue was likely to prove weak in the sprints and hurdles and at present seemed about on a par with the Purple in the hammer-throw and shot-put. Springdale's best performer with the shot was credited with thirty-nine feet and two inches, but Skeet declared himself skeptical about that. Arthur Beaton spent hours at a time drawing up predictions of the outcome of the dual meet which proved, to his satisfaction at least, that the Purple would win by a good fifteen points. But Beaton was notably an optimist.
The plan of holding a School meet was abandoned owing to the small number of members, but, on the twenty-first of the month the entrants in each event were allowed to compete against each other and the results were posted. Skeet did not, however, publish times or distances, although they were made known to the contestants. In the dashes Lanny finished first with ease, Kirke getting second place in the hundred-yards and third in the two-twenty. Perry tied with Soper for third place in the short distance and finished fourth in the two-twenty. Since, however, a blanket would have covered all the sprinters but Lanny at the finish of that race, fourth place was not vastly different from second. The time was disappointing, but the track was soft after an all-night rain and Skeet didn't seem troubled when he snapped Lanny ten and two-fifths for the hundred and twenty-four and three-fifths for the longer sprint. The high hurdles went to Lanny and Beaton finished only three yards behind him. Peyton fell at the second hurdle and was a poor third. In the low hurdles Lanny was swept off his feet by Peyton and had to work hard to beat out Beaton for the next honors. The jumps developed poor performances, but in the pole-vault Guy Felker surprised himself and everyone else by doing ten feet and one inch, bettering the school and the dual record by two and a half inches. That and Partridge's shot-put of thirty-seven feet and two inches were the only notable performances that afternoon.
The mile run proved a good deal of a fizzle. Smith, considered the only dependable entrant for that event, had cramps and dropped out on the third lap, and Toll and Tupper fought it out together, Toll finishing well in the lead in the slow time of six minutes and twenty seconds. Evidently the result of the mile was a foregone conclusion since it was well known that Springdale's best miler had a record of five minutes and five seconds. The half-mile was a good race—Todd, Lasker and Train finishing in that order, the winner's time being two minutes and fourteen and one-fifth seconds. The quarter-mile saw Todd, Sears and Cranston running bunched until the final fifty yards, when Sears forged ahead and finished with his head up in the fair time of fifty-four and four-fifths seconds. In the hammer event, which wasn't finished until after six o'clock, Partridge won handily with a best throw of one hundred and twenty-six feet and seven inches. Falkland was second with a hundred and twenty-one feet and three inches and Fudge was third at a hundred and eighteen feet and six inches. Thad Brimmer was in poor form and was several feet behind Fudge.
The contests brought out many faults not displayed previously, and to that extent were useful. Possibly, too, they served to accustom new members of the team to the conditions of competition. At any rate, the fellows enjoyed them, and the audience did too. There was one member of the audience who, seated in the grandstand, watched events with a deal of interest. This was Mr. Addicks. As it was Saturday and work was for the time slack, he had treated himself to an afternoon off. No one paid any attention to him; few, indeed, observed him; certainly neither Perry nor Fudge. He would have liked to have gone down on the field and mingled with the throngs along the track and about the pits, but since he was not a High School fellow he thought he might be trespassing. There was no ball game to-day to divide attention, for the Nine had gone off to play against, and, incidentally, get drubbed by Templeton College. Mr. Addicks watched the sprints and hurdle events critically and found no fault with Lanny White's work. Lanny, he concluded, was a born sprinter and hurdler and only needed better training to become a master of those arts. With the rest, though, he was far less satisfied. Indeed, he frowned a good deal over the running of the other three competitors. He didn't remain until the end, but left the field after the quarter-mile run. He had wanted to see Fudge's performance with the hammer, for Fudge had talked rather importantly of it of late, but he couldn't see that event taking place anywhere and didn't think to look outside the field. On the way back to town he stopped in the telegraph office and made use of a telegram blank to write a brief note. This he dropped through the letter-slot in Dr. Hull's front door, and Perry found it awaiting him when he got home. It read:
Alcali Ike: Come and see me this evening if you can. If not, in the morning. Death to traitors!
Ever since he had learned of the boys' suspicions regarding him, Mr. Addicks had humorously insisted on applying such picturesque aliases to them and himself. Fudge was "Four-Fingered Pete," usually, although sometimes he was addressed as "Willie Rufus, the Boy Detective." Perry was variously "Alkali Ike," "Doctor Watson" or "The Apache Kid." Perry smiled as he read the missive, got Fudge on the telephone and announced his purpose of calling on Mr. Addicks after supper and instructed Fudge to join him there, and then descended hungrily on the contents of the table. He was very full of the afternoon's proceedings and, although he didn't suspect it, I fancy his father and mother were relieved when the meal was over and he grabbed his cap and disappeared.
He found Mr. Addicks working at a drawing-table in the new room into which he had moved a few days before, but his host laid aside pen and ruler, square and compass, and took him into the old apartment, now a trifle more comfortable by reason of the acquisition of a second-hand easy-chair. Into this he forced Perry and took his own position as usual on a corner of the table.
"I saw you run to-day," he announced, "and I want to talk to you about it."
"Were you there?" asked Perry. "I didn't see you. Why didn't you let me know?"
"I sat in the stand. I didn't know whether they'd want me on the field."
"Shucks, everyone comes on. I wish I'd known you were there. What—what did you think of it?"
"The field?" asked Mr. Addicks innocently.
"No, I mean the—the sprinting and all."
"I thought that fellow White was a mighty clever runner, Perry. I don't know that I ever saw a chap handle himself much better. Of course he wasn't half trying to-day. He didn't have to. I'd like to see him when he was pushed."
"He's fine, Lanny is," said Perry admiringly. "And Kirke is pretty good, too, didn't you think? He got second in the hundred, you know."
"That his name? Well, he's not the sprinter White is. Is that little thin fellow your trainer? The fellow in the brown-and-white sweater?"
"Yes, that's Skeet Presser. He used to be a champion miler; or maybe it was half-miler; I forget."
"Is he considered a good coach?"
"Oh, yes, sir! He trains at the Y. M. C. A., you know."
Mr. Addicks smiled. "Well, that ought to be conclusive, Perry! But let me ask you something now. Who taught you how to run?"
"Why, he did; he and Lanny. Lanny coaches the sprinters sometimes."
"White, you mean? Well, did either of them ever tell you that you ought to use your arms in running?"
"My arms? No, sir, I don't think so. Skeet told me I wasn't to let my arms get behind me."
"That was clever of him," said Mr. Addicks dryly. "Have you ever watched your friend White run?"
"Yes, lots of times."
"Ever notice what he does with his arms?"
Perry hesitated. "I don't think so, particularly."
"Well, you should. Look here, Perry, you're not really running, my boy. You made a nice start to-day in the two-twenty and you used a nice stride when you found it, which wasn't until you were pretty nearly to the tape, but you waved your arms all over the lot and never once used them to help your running. Now if you're ever going to do anything in the sprints, or in the distances, either, you've got to learn how to use your arms. A sprinter runs with three things, Perry; his legs, his arms and his head. You use your legs fairly well, although you're trying to get too long a stride for a chap with legs the length yours are; and I guess you'll learn to use your head well enough when you've been in a few races; but you aren't getting anything out of your arms; in fact, you're slowing yourself up, the way you're beating the air with them." Mr. Addicks slid off the table. "Suppose I wave my arms like this when I'm running. Think that's any help to me? Not a bit, old scout. Get your arm action and leg action together. Rip them forward, like this; left leg, right arm, right leg, left arm. That way you're pulling yourself along. But don't just hold them out and paddle your hands, or trail them behind your hips or hug your chest with them the way one of you chaps did to-day. See what I mean at all?"
"Yes, I think so. I never knew about that, though."
"Of course you didn't if no one told you. Not one of you fellows except White ran in decent form to-day; and if someone would tell him not to throw his head back as far as he does he'd do better yet. What the dickens does this Skeet fellow think? That you kids can find out all these things without being told? Why, great, jumping Geewhillikins, there are all sorts of things to be learned if you're going to be a real sprinter! It isn't just getting off the mark quick and running as hard as you know how to the tape. There's science in it, old scout, a heap of science!"
"I suppose there is," replied Perry a trifle dejectedly. "And I don't suppose I'll ever be real good at it."
"Why not? Don't expect to be a ten-flat hundred-yard man yet, though. You're too young and your legs are too short and your lungs aren't big enough. For two or three years the two-twenty will be your best distance. You can't hustle into your stride and move fast enough to compete with older fellows in the hundred. But, if you'll realize that in the two-twenty you can't push all the way, you may make a good performer. You have a pretty fair style, Perry. I like the way you throw your heels without 'dragging,' for one thing. But what I've just said about trying all the way through the two-twenty is so. It can't be done; at least, it can't be done by the average sprinter. Get your stride as soon as you can after you're off the mark, then let your legs carry you a while; I mean by that don't put all your strength into the going; save something for the last thirty yards or so. Then let yourself out! Remember that the hundred-yards is a hustle all the way, but the two-twenty is just a hundred and twenty yards longer and the fellow who tries to win in the first half of the race dies at the finish. Of course, it all comes by trying and learning. Experience brings judgment, and judgment is what a sprinter has to have. You'll soon find out just about how much power you can spend in getting away and how much you can use in the first twenty seconds and how much you'll need for the final spurt. Only, until you have learned that, play it safe and don't try all the way. If you do you'll finish tied up in a hard knot! See what I mean?"
"Yes, sir, thanks."
"Try it and see if I'm not right." Mr. Addicks perched himself on the table again and swung a foot thoughtfully. "I wish I had the coaching of you for a couple of weeks," he said. "I'd make a two-twenty man out of you or I miss my guess!"
"I wish you had," replied Perry wistfully. "No one told me all that, Mr. Addicks. Couldn't you—I mean, I don't suppose you'd have time to show me, would you?"
"I'm afraid not." Mr. Addicks shook his head. "I'd like to, though. I guess the trouble with this Skeet fellow is that he's got so much on his hands he can't give thorough attention to any one thing. Still, I should think he'd see that his sprinters are making a mess of it. White ought to savvy it, anyway." He was silent a minute. Then: "Look here," he said abruptly, "what time do you get up in the morning?"
"About seven, usually. Sometimes a little before."
"Seven! Great Snakes, that's halfway to sun-down! That the best you can do?"
"No, sir, I could get up a lot earlier if I wanted to."
"Well, you get up a lot earlier some morning and we'll go out to the track and I'll show you what I'm talking about. Swallow a cup of coffee, or whatever it is you drink in the morning; that's all you'll need; we won't try anything stiff. What do you say to that?"
"Why," replied Perry eagerly, "that would be dandy! Will you really do it, sir? When?"
"To-morrow—no, to-morrow's Sunday. How about Monday? Be outside your house at six and"
Mr. Addicks was interrupted by a knock on the door, and, in response to a lusty "Come in!" Fudge entered.
"Ah," exclaimed Mr. Addicks, "we have with us to-night Arizona Bill, the Boy Hercules!"