Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner. Duffield J. W.
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Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner
CHAPTER I
With Flying Feet
A thundering cheer burst from ten thousand throats, as the three athletes, running like deer, swung into the stretch and straightened away for home.
It was the last day of the intercollegiate meet for field and track events, and the most thrilling feature had been reserved for the wind-up. It was a modified Marathon of fifteen miles and the fastest runners in the East had entered the lists. Each college had sent the pick of its runners to struggle for the mastery, and excitement was at fever heat.
The stands were a mass of color, packed with the partisans of the various contenders and “rooting” fiercely for their favorites. The different events – pole vaulting, hammer throwing, broad and high jumping – had been bitterly contested, and the victories had been only a matter of inches. And now with the minor features disposed of, all eyes were centered on the most important of all – the long distance race.
A splendid body of athletes, twenty in number, had faced the starter, and at the crack of his pistol had darted off like greyhounds freed from the leash. They formed a magnificent picture of youth and vigor as they sped around the track. For the first mile or two they kept a fairly compact formation; but then the line began to lengthen. Some through weariness, others through craftiness, fell to the rear and let the others make the pace. By the time five miles had been covered, the sifting process began. Brawn and wind and staying power asserted themselves. The weaker or more poorly conditioned dropped out altogether or plodded hopelessly in the rear. At six miles from the finish, only five were left, and when they entered upon the last mile, the race had narrowed down to three.
In the stands Bedlam broke loose. The excitement that had been seething all the afternoon reached its climax. The frantic rooters hurled entreaties and begged their favorites to come on and win. Old “grads” worked themselves into a state bordering on apoplexy, while pretty girls waved their flags and joined their treble to the bass of the men. The tremendous uproar put new life and spirit into the tired racers as they braced themselves for the final sprint.
The race seemed to belong to one of the first two who were running neck and neck. Fifty feet behind came the third. He was tall and splendidly built with the narrow hips and broad chest that mark the thoroughbred. To the ordinary observer he seemed to be out of it, in view of the gap that separated him from the two leaders. An expert, however, would have seen that he was running easily and had himself well in hand. At the half he lengthened his stride almost imperceptibly and reduced the lead to twenty feet.
Then something happened. The steady lope became a sprint; the sprint became a flight. He came down the track like a bullet from a gun, with eyes blazing, head erect and his legs working like piston rods. He seemed to be flying rather than running. Foot by foot he overtook the men in front. They knew from the startled roar of their partisans that he was coming, they heard the rushing feet behind them, and they called on every ounce of strength they had for a last desperate effort. For a moment they held their own, but only for a moment. With a terrific burst of speed that brought the yelling stands to their feet, he passed them as though they were standing still and breasted the tape a winner, in the fastest time ever recorded for the track.
“Wilson,” “Wilson,” “Wilson,” shouted the wearers of the Blue as they poured down over the field in a frantic mob that threatened to engulf him. In a twinkling they hoisted him on their shoulders and carried him about the track while their college songs went booming down the field. They fairly fought to get near him and refused to let him go, until at the clubhouse door he laughingly shook himself loose and went in for his bath and rub-down.
“By the powers,” exclaimed Reddy, the trainer of the team, as he nearly shook his hand off, “you did yourself proud, Wilson, me boy. I’m not denying that me heart was in me mouth when the fellows were showing you the way to the tape. But I kept saying to myself: ‘He’ll know when the time comes to let himself out,’ and sure enough ye did. Ye came down that track in the last lap like the Twentieth Century Express. Ye only hit the high places. I never saw such running in my life.”
“Well,” came the answer laughingly, “I’m sorry I nearly gave you heart failure, Reddy, but we won, and that’s the main thing after all. I never felt worried myself for a minute. I was sure I had the other fellows’ number as soon as I cared to let go. I could see that they’d shot their bolt when we turned into the stretch and I knew I had plenty in reserve. I had my second wind and felt as if I could run all day.”
“They sure were all in when they staggered over the line,” said Reddy. “Brady collapsed altogether and Thornton looked like a ghost. But you’re as fine as silk and haven’t turned a hair. Ye look as though ye could do it all over again,” he went on admiringly as he noticed the elastic step and regular breathing.
“No, thank you,” was the response, “I’m no glutton and I know when I have enough. But now for the shower, Reddy, and then for the training table. I’m hungry as a wolf.”
With his skin glowing and every muscle tingling from the vigorous rub-down, he stepped from the clubhouse only to run the gauntlet of the enthusiasts who had been waiting for him at the entrance. A mighty shout rose and hands without number grasped his or patted him on the back.
“What’s the matter with Wilson?” they queried and the answer came in a rousing chorus: “He’s all right.”
At last he escaped from his rejoicing comrades, and in company with Dick Trent and Tom Henderson, his special chums, started over to the college buildings. The reaction from the terrific strain was beginning to make itself felt. But his heart was filled with exultation. He had fought fiercely. He had fought fairly. And he had fought victoriously. He had won glory for his Alma Mater and carried her colors to triumph. And just at that moment he would not have changed places with the President of the United States or the king of any country in the world.
“Gee, Bert,” said Tom, “that was a wonderful sprint in the stretch. You didn’t have legs; they were wings. Just as the other fellows too were thinking it was all over except the shouting.”
“Yes,” added Dick, “it would have been tall running even for a hundred yard dash. But how you did it after running fifteen miles is beyond me. By George, I wish I had timed you on that last lap. I’d have hated to be in your way as you came tearing down to the line.”
“There might have been a mix-up for a fact,” laughed Bert. “That tape looked awfully good to me and I’d surely have felt peevish if any one had hit it before I did. And it wasn’t any sure thing at that. Thornton and Brady were certainly running some. I looked for them to crack before they did. If they’d had the least bit in reserve, they might have made it hot for me. But they’d killed themselves off in making the pace. I just kept trailing and watching, and when the right moment came I made my run. But they’re dandy runners,” he added, with the generosity that was one of his leading traits, “and in another race they might reverse the verdict.”
“Not in a thousand years,” maintained Tom stoutly. “They never saw and never will see the day they can outrun you. It’s you for the Olympic team all right. There’s no one this side of the ‘big pond’ who can make you take his dust.”
“No,” chimed in Dick, “nor on the other side either. There isn’t a fellow who saw you run to-day that wouldn’t back you to beat anything in Europe and America put together.”
“Not so fast fellows,” remonstrated Bert. “Remember I haven’t even made the team yet. This is only a preliminary tryout for the Eastern cracks. I’ve got to come up against the Western bunch and if all I hear is true they are going ‘great guns’ in practice. Then too they grow some speedy sprinters in the amateur athletic clubs – regular streaks of greased lightning. I may prove only a false alarm when I match my wind and speed against theirs.”
“Yes,” said Tom with fine scorn, “we’ll worry a lot about that, won’t we Dick? Didn’t Thornton hold the American record up to to-day?” he demanded, “and didn’t you run rings around him?”
“But this mightn’t have been his day,” began Bert.
“No,” said Dick mockingly, “it wasn’t. Suppose we say it was Bert Wilson’s day and let it go at that.”
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