Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner. Duffield J. W.
that might have daunted the stoutest heart he had met without quailing. His physical prowess was beyond dispute. He was a typical athlete, strong, quick, muscular, and a natural leader in all manly sports. In most of them he stood head and shoulders above his fellows. He had borne off trophy after trophy on field and track. This alone would have marked him out as one to be reckoned with, but it was only a part of the reason why he was the idol of his friends and comrades.
His popularity lay in the fact that his splendid body held a heroic soul. He was clear grit through and through. His muscles were no more iron than his will. His beaten opponents often grumbled that he had no nerves, but they never questioned his nerve. He faced life with eyes wide open and unafraid. He stood on his own feet, asking no odds and seeking no advantage. He never quit. There was no “yellow streak” in him anywhere. To-day had only been one more illustration of his indomitable will, his bulldog tenacity. Add to this that he was a staunch friend, a jolly “pal,” a true comrade, and there was no mystery as to the feeling his friends had for him.
None felt these qualities more strongly than his particular chums, Tom and Dick. Their friendship was one of many years standing and grew steadily stronger as time went on. Every new experience tightened the bond between them. They had been with him on many occasions, some merely exciting, others attended by personal danger, and none had ever shown the white feather. In all their adventures, Bert had been easily the central figure. When as campers they had had that thrilling automobile race it was Bert’s hand on the wheel that had steered the Red Scout to its glorious victory over the Gray Ghost, its redoubtable rival. In that last heart-breaking game when the “Blues” captured the championship of the college diamond, it was Bert’s masterly pitching of his great ‘fadeaway’ ball that snatched victory from defeat before twenty thousand frenzied rooters. Only a few months before, when acting as wireless operator on that summer evening off the China coast, it was Bert’s quick wit and dauntless courage that had beaten off the pirate attack and sent the yellow scoundrels tumbling into their junks. Small wonder then that they believed in him so fully and refused to concede that he could lose in anything he undertook. Mentally and actually they were prepared to back him to the limit. While delighted at to-day’s victory they were in no way surprised. He “had the habit” of winning.
After supper, where Bert made ample amends for the “short commons” he had been under while preparing for the race, Tom came into the rooms that Bert and Dick shared together, for his usual chat before bedtime.
“Mustn’t keep you up too late, old fellow,” he said as he dropped into a chair. “I suppose you want to hit the feathers early to-night. You must be dead tired after the race.”
“Oh, I’m not especially sleepy,” replied Bert, “just a little lazy. I had such a big supper that I’m doing the anaconda stunt, just now. I’m full and therefore happy. I’m at peace with all mankind. If I’ve an enemy in the world, I forgive him.”
“Well, you haven’t an enemy in this college world just now, you can bet on that,” said Tom. “The fellows are talking of nothing else than the race this afternoon. The whole place is buzzing with it. They’re sure that you’ve cinched your place on the Olympic team beyond all question.”
“By the way,” broke in Dick, “how did this Olympic idea get its start anyway? Who dug it up? Who saw it first?”
“Why,” replied Tom, “it was a Frenchman I believe – de Coubertin or some name like that – who suggested it.”
“That seems queer too,” said Dick. “You don’t usually think of the French in connection with athletics. Of course they’re a great nation and all that, but somehow or other they bring to mind high heels and frock coats and waxed mustaches and button hole bouquets. The men kiss each other when they meet and they cry too easily. They seem a little too delicate for the rough work of the field and track.”
“They do seem a little womanish,” admitted Bert, “but that is only a matter of custom. Don’t think for a minute, though, that there is anything weak or cowardly about the French. There are no finer fighters in the world. They go to their death as gaily as to a dinner. No one will die more readily for an idea. A little theatrical about it, perhaps, but the real stuff is there.”
“Oh, they’re fighters sure enough,” asserted Dick. “They’re something like old Fuzzy-Wuzzy that Kipling tells about;
“‘’E’s all ’ot sand and ginger when alive,
And ’e’s generally shammin’ when ’e’s dead.’”
“To be sure,” went on Bert, “they had it handed to them good and plenty in 1870. But that wasn’t due to any lack of courage on their part. Both sides fought bravely, but the Germans were better prepared. They caught the French napping.”
“Well,” said Tom, “it was this very affair of 1870 that started de Coubertin in the matter of the Olympic games. He smarted under defeat. He got the idea that his people needed building up physically. It was shy on brawn and muscle. At first he had only the French in mind, but soon his plans took in other nations too. So a big convention of delegates met in Paris and formed an Olympic committee that has carried on the work ever since.”
“When did they hold the first meet?” asked Dick.
“At Athens in 1896,” answered Tom, “and it certainly seemed right that Greece, the scene of the old Olympic games, should have the first chance at the new. And everybody was glad too to have a Greek win the first great Marathon race. The excitable Greeks went wild over it. They gave him all sorts of presents. Some were of great value; others were simply comical. A tailor gave him a suit of clothes. A barber promised him free shaves for life. A restaurant gave him a dinner every day for a year and another volunteered two cups of coffee daily as long as he lived. One laundry did his washing free and another his ironing. Many women offered to marry him, but he turned them all down for the little Greek girl, his sweetheart, who had promised to say ‘yes’ if he came in first.”
“Perhaps that’s what made him win,” laughed Dick.
“Well it didn’t slow him up any,” agreed Tom, “you may be sure of that.”
“Since that time,” he went on, “they have met in various places. We’ve had it once in this country, in St. Louis, in 1904. But whether held here or abroad, your Uncle Sam has been on deck every time. Our boys have taken twice as many first prizes as all other nations put together.”
“That’s a winning way we have,” crowed Dick. “We’re seldom far behind when the laurel crowns are handed out.”
“The whole idea is splendid, anyway,” exclaimed Bert. “The men that meet in the games learn to like and respect each other. When they once get together they’re surprised to find how much they are alike in all that goes to make up a man.”
“Yes,” said Dick, “it helps a lot. I’ll bet it does more good than all the Peace societies you hear so much about. It’s bound to make us understand each other better. So here’s to the next Olympic, especially its Marathon race, and may the best man win!”
“He will,” said Tom, with a glance at Bert, “and I know his name.”
CHAPTER II
The Deadly Rattler
The days flew by as though on wings. Reddy brought his men along by easy stages. He was far too wise to be impatient. He believed in the old motto of “hastening slowly.” But every day saw its quota of work mapped out and performed, and before long his persistent effort began to tell. The little group of athletes under his control rounded into form, and it became certain that the Blue colors would be carried to victory in more than one event when it came to the final test.
Upon Bert, however, he banked more heavily than on any other. He felt that here he had an ideal combination of brain and brawn. Nature had given him the material to work with and it depended entirely on the training to turn him out in the “pink of condition” for the decisive race.
Not once, however, did he let him run the full Marathon distance of twenty-six miles. In his expressive phrase it would “take too much out