THAT early morning session at the track didn't come off on Monday because it was raining hard when the alarm clock which Perry had borrowed for the occasion buzzed frantically at a quarter to six. It had been agreed that should it be raining the event was to be postponed. So it was Tuesday when Mr. Addicks gave his first lesson. He was already in front of the house when Perry hurried out. He was enveloped from neck to ankles in a thread-bare brown ulster beneath which he wore an old pair of running-trunks and a faded green shirt.
"Thought it might do me good to take a little exercise while I'm out there," he explained. "I haven't had these things on for years, and wasn't sure I'd kept them until I rummaged through my trunk. Couldn't find my shoes, though." Perry saw that he was wearing a pair of rubber-soled canvas "sneakers" which had probably been white a long time ago. "How are you feeling? Ever up so early before?"
"A few times," Perry laughed. "Usually on the Fourth."
"Had anything to eat or drink?"
"No, sir, the fire wasn't lighted. I'm not hungry, though."
"Better have something inside you. We'll stop at the drug store and get some hot malted-milk."
This they did, and then went on to the field. It was a fine, warm May morning, and after yesterday's showers the world looked and smelled fresh and fragrant. They found the gates at the field locked, but it was no trick at all to climb over the fence. Fudge had agreed to meet them there with his stop-watch, although Mr. Addicks had assured him that a time-trial was unthought of, but he was not on hand nor did he appear at all that morning. Later he explained that the maid had forgotten to call him.
Inside, Mr. Addicks threw off his ulster and, while Perry got into his running togs, stretched his long legs and surprised his muscles by various contortions to which they were long unused. Perry was soon back and Mr. Addicks put him on his mark and sent him away at little more than a jog. "Head up," he instructed. "Shorten your stride. That's better. Don't be afraid to use the flat of your foot. Running on your toes is too hard on your legs. Now swing your arms, Perry. Drive 'em out and pull 'em back, boy! No, no, don't make an effort of it. Just easy, just easy. That's better."
Mr. Addicks trotted alongside to the turn and then called a halt.
"That's enough. Now get your breath and watch the way I do it. Watch my arms particularly."
He crouched for a start, unlike the usual sprinter holding but one hand to the ground. Then he launched forward, caught his stride almost at once and ran lightly back along the track, his long legs scarcely seeming to make any effort and his arms reaching forward and back, his body twisting slightly above the hips from side to side. It was pretty work, and even Perry, who had never seen many runners, realized that he was watching one who was, allowing for lack of recent practice, a past-master. After that he was sent off again and again, for short distances, at scarcely more than a trot until he at last solved the philosophy of the arm movement. He had begun to despair of ever getting the hang of it when, suddenly, he awoke to the realization that, for the first time since he had been running, legs, arms and body were working together in perfect unison! He had the novel sensation of being a well-oiled machine of which every part was timing absolutely! He slowed down at the corner and returned to his instructor with shining eyes, triumphant and slightly astonished.
"I did it!" he exclaimed. "I did it then, Mr. Addicks! Did you see me?"
"Yes, you got it at last. Notice the difference?"
"Yes, indeed!"
"Of course you do! Before you were fighting with yourself. Now your muscles all work together. Sit down a minute and rest. Then I want to see you start from the mark down there and come fairly fast to the corner. See how quickly you can get your stride and your form. Run easily to about that white mark on the rim up there and finish hard."
Because Perry feared that the others would think him silly, he had sworn Fudge to secrecy regarding the early-morning lessons, and Fudge, who was as communicative a youth as any in Clearfield but could be as close-mouthed as a sulky clam on occasions, kept the secret, and no one but Mr. Addicks, his pupil and Fudge knew until long after what went on at Brent Field between six and seven on fair mornings. Perry learned fast, partly because he was naturally an apt pupil and partly because Mr. Addicks was a patient and capable instructor. When a point couldn't be made quite clear with words Mr. Addicks stepped onto the cinders and illustrated it, and Perry couldn't help but understand. I think Mr. Addicks got as much pleasure, and possibly as much benefit, from the lessons as Perry did. He confessed the second morning that what little running he had done the day before had lamed him considerably, and declared his intention of getting back into trim again and staying there. At the end of a week he was doing two and three laps of the track and never feeling it. Fudge, who joined them occasionally, became ardently admiring of such running as that of Mr. Addicks' and regretted that he had not gone in for the middle distances. "That," he confided to Perry one morning, "is what I call the p-p-p-poetry of motion!" And he managed to make it sound absolutely original!
Mr. Addicks insisted that Perry should specialize on the two-hundred-and-twenty-yards dash, and coached him carefully over almost every foot of that distance, from the moment he put his spikes into the holes and awaited the signal, until he had crossed the line, arms up and head back. Perry, who had been complimented on his starting, discovered to his surprise that he was very much of a duffer at it. Mr. Addicks made him arrange his holes further apart in each direction and showed him how to crouch with less strain on his muscles. And he showed him how to get away from the mark with a quicker straightening of the body, so that, after a week of practice, he could find his stride at the end of the first fifteen yards and be running with body straight and in form. And then at last one morning there came a time-trial over the two hundred and twenty yards and, with Fudge sending him away and Mr. Addicks holding the watch at the finish, Perry put every ounce of power into his running and trotted back to be shown a dial on which the hand had been stopped at twenty-four and one-fifth!
"Why—why" stammered Perry breathlessly, "that's a fifth under the time Lanny made last year!"
"That doesn't signify much," replied Mr. Addicks. "This time may be a fifth of a second wrong one way or another. And you must remember that White probably made his record when he was tired from the hundred yards. Anyway, it's fair time, Perry, and if you can do as well as that in the meet you'll probably get second place at least."
Fudge, hurrying up to learn the result, stuttered rapturously on being told. "I t-t-t-told him he'd m-m-m-make a p-p-peach of a s-s-s-sprinter! D-d-d-didn't"
"You did," laughed Perry. "Couldn't I try the hundred now, Mr. Addicks?"
"Not to-day, son. Too much is enough. We'll try that some other time. Don't work too hard this afternoon, by the way. It's easy to get stale at this stage of the game. And the meet is less than two weeks off."
"Gee," sighed Fudge, "I w-w-wish you'd sh-sh-show me something about th-th-th-throwing the hammer!"
"I would if I knew anything about it, Fudge. But I thought you were getting on swimmingly."
"Pretty fair, sir. Only Falkland keeps on beating me by four or five feet every time. I wish I were taller, that's what I wish! He's almost six inches taller than I am and his arms are longer."
"You might wear stilts," Perry suggested.
"Or put French heels on your shoes," laughed Mr. Addicks.
Fudge sighed dolefully and then brightened. "Anyway," he said, "I can beat Thad! And he's older than I, and bigger, too."
"Whatever happens," said Mr. Addicks as they crossed the field, "I've got to see that meet, fellows!"
"Of course," agreed Fudge. "Mr. Brent will let you off, won't he?"
"It isn't Mr. Brent who has the say so," replied the other with a smile. "It's my pocketbook, Fudge."
"Oh! But I thought you were making a heap of money now, sir. You went and took that other room and—and all."
"That's why I'm still poor, Four-Fingered Pete. Earning an honest living is hard work. Sometimes I think I'll go back to train-robbery."
"Aren't you ever going to forget that?" wailed Fudge.
Baseball was now well into mid-season. Seven games had been played, of which two had been lost, one tied and the rest won. A Second Team, captained by Sprague McCoy, was putting the regulars on their mettle three afternoons a week and was playing an occasional contest of its own with an outside nine. Dick Lovering was fairly well satisfied with his charges, although it was too early to predict what was to happen in the final game with Springdale, nearly a month distant. The pitching staff was gradually coming around into shape now that warm weather had arrived. Tom Haley, still first-choice box-artist, had pitched a no-hit game against Locust Valley and of late had gone well-nigh unpunished.
The Templeton game had been somewhat of a jolt, to use Captain Jones' inelegant but expressive phrase, inasmuch as Templeton had been looked on as an easy adversary, and Joe Browne, in process of being turned into a third-choice pitcher, had started in the box against them. Joe had been literally slaughtered in exactly two-thirds of one inning and had thereupon gone back to right field, yielding the ball to Nostrand. But Nostrand, while faring better, had been by no means invulnerable. Even if he had held the enemy safe, however, Clearfield would still have been defeated, for her hitting that day was so poor that she was unable to overcome the four runs which Templeton had piled up in that luckless first inning. The First Team had to stand a deal of ragging from the Second Team fellows when they got back, for the Second had gone down to Lesterville and won handily from a hard-hitting team of mill operatives who had claimed the county championship for several years. To be sure, the Second Team fellows had returned rather the worse for wear, Terry Carson having a black eye, Howard Breen a badly spiked instep and McCoy a bruised knee, but still they had conquered!
The first game with Springdale—they played a series for two games out of three—was scheduled for the fourth of June at Clearfield. The second contest was to be held at Springdale a week later, which was the date of the dual meet, and the third, if necessary, was to take place at Clearfield on the seventeenth. Just now it was on the first of these contests that the eyes of Dick and Captain Warner Jones and the players themselves were fixed. Dick was anxious to get that first game, whatever happened afterwards. In the second contest Clearfield was to do without the services of Lanny as catcher, for Lanny was due on that day to stow away some thirteen or fourteen points for the Track Team, and while Pete Robey could be depended on to catch a good game, Lanny's absence from the line-up was bound to be felt. So Dick was out after that first encounter, realizing that with that put safely on ice he would be able to accept a defeat the following Saturday with a fair degree of philosophy. Perhaps, fortunately for the nine, two other members who had tried for the Track Team had failed, and Lanny was the only one who stood to make history in two branches of athletics this spring.
Bert Cable, last year's captain, labored indefatigably and was of much assistance to Dick who, handicapped as he was by his infirmity, was forced to do most of his coaching from the bench. That was an extremely busy week for the Clearfield High School Baseball Team, and Gordon Merrick confided to Lanny on Thursday that if Dick sent him to the batting-net the next day he would probably go mad and bite someone. "Why, last night," he said, "I dreamed that Tom and Nostrand and Joe Browne and two or three others were all pitching to me at once! My arms are still lame from that nightmare!"
"Well, there won't be anything very strenuous to-morrow," Lanny comforted. "In fact, you'll get off easier than I shall, for I've got to do track work."
"You're an idiot to try both," said Gordon. "What's going to happen to us next week, I'd like to know, with Robey catching."
"Oh, Pete will get along all right. In fact, he's a mighty good catcher, Gordon."
"He's all right at catching, but a child could steal on him. He can't get the ball down to second to save his life until the runner's brushing the dust from his trousers!"
"Well, with Tom Haley pitching the runner ought not to get a start off first. Tom's the one who can hold 'em."
"Maybe, but I'll bet you anything they steal a half-dozen times on us."
"Don't let them get to first," advised Lanny. "That's the safest plan."
"Yes, safety first," agreed the other. "How many races are you down for next week, Lanny?"
"Four, sprints and hurdles. But I may not run them all. It depends on who qualifies. If Arthur and Eg Peyton get placed for the low hurdles I'll probably drop out. By the way, that young Hull is quite a find, Gordie. I wouldn't be surprised to see him get a second in the two-twenty. He's developing into a mighty spry youth. Runs nicely, too. Lots of form. Funny thing is he never tried the sprints until this spring."
"I guess Skeet is a pretty good trainer, isn't he?"
"Y-yes. Yes, Skeet's all right. The only trouble with Skeet is that he can't seem to get it into his head that our chaps are just youngsters. He expects them to stand a lot of hard work and then can't understand why they get tired and loaf. Still, he's all right, and I wouldn't be a bit surprised if we won this year."
"Well," Gordon laughed, "with you taking part in most of the stunts, I don't see how you can help it. How many points are you supposed to annex, anyway?"
"Thirteen or fourteen; fourteen if I'm in luck."
"How many do we have to have to win? Fifty-something, isn't it?"
"Fifty-four ties. Anything more than that wins. Arthur has it doped out that we're to get firsts in six events; both sprints, the high hurdles, the quarter-mile, the pole-vault and the shot-put, and enough seconds and thirds to give us sixty points."
"First place counts five and second place three"
"And third place one. I don't remember just how Arthur arrives at his result, but he gets there somehow. It's going to be a good meet, anyhow, and I'm sorry you won't be here to see it."
"Maybe I shall be," responded Gordon pessimistically, "if Dick doesn't stop batting practice. I've only got two arms, and they won't swing many more times without dropping off! I'd like to see you run away from those Springdale chumps, too. I suppose you'll win that purple pennant the girls have put up."
"Don't know about that. I wouldn't object to having it. It's mighty good-looking, and purple goes well with my complexion."
"Complexion!" jibed Gordon. "You haven't any more complexion than a board fence. By the way, did you see that they were patching the fence to-day?"
"Yes, and I hear they're going to fix up the track for us a bit before the meet. Wonder where they're getting the money. Last time I heard anything about it they had about sixty cents in the treasury."
"We've had two or three pretty fair-sized crowds out there so far. I dare say the Corwin game brought in fifty or sixty dollars."
"And they got a third of it. Well, I don't care where the money comes from. I'm glad they're going to mend the track. I'd hate to have Springdale see it the way it is."
"I think it's silly to fix it. They ought to leave it the way it is and pray for rain. Then maybe some of the Springdale chaps would fall in the puddles and drown."
"You've got a mean disposition," laughed Lanny.
"I've got a very fine disposition," returned Gordon with dignity, "but it's being ruined by Dick Lovering and batting practice. Bet you anything I don't get a single hit Saturday."
"That's right, don't; make 'em all doubles! By the way, they'll probably work that left-hander of theirs against us in the first game. I wish we had more left-hand batters."
"That will give Breen a show, maybe. He and Cotner and Scott are our only port-siders, I think."
"Nostrand bats left-handed. If Springdale pitches Newton, Dick may use Nostrand instead of Tom Haley. I hope he doesn't, though. Nostrand's a pretty fair pitcher, but he can't hold them on the bases the way Tom can."
"No, and he scares me to death every time he pegs across. I always expect the ball to go over my head. He needs a lot of practice throwing to first."
"He's a corking good fielder, though, Gordie. Don't forget that. Well, here's where I leave you. What are you doing this evening?"
"Nothing special. I've got some chemistry work to make up, though. Why? Anything doing?"
"Come on over to Morris's. He's fixed some electric lights over the tennis court and is going to try and play at night."
"Don't remember being invited."
"What of it? It isn't a party."
"All right, but don't expect me to play. It's too much like swinging a bat! Stop by for me."