Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner Part 18

The Marathon was to start at three in the afternoon at a point twenty-six miles away from the Stadium. The most detailed preparations had been made for the event. The distance had been carefully measured off by expert surveyors, and policed from end to end in order to keep a clear path for the racers and see that the rules were strictly observed.

At every hundred feet stood a group of soldiers. All traffic had been suspended by an imperial order. An ambulance, with Red Cross doctors and nurses, was to follow and pick up any who might fall out or be overcome with exhaustion.

The contestants had been taken to the starting point in automobiles the night before, so that they might get a good night's sleep and be in prime condition. Now the temporary training quarters were humming with bustle and excitement. The last bath and rubdown and kneading of the muscles were over and the final words of caution and encouragement spoken, as the fellows lined up in readiness for the starter's pistol.

Bert, in superb condition, his skin glowing, his muscles rippling, shook hands with his friends, as he stood waiting for the start.

"For the good old college, Bert," said Drake.

"For the team," barked Reddy.

"For the flag," said Tom.

"For America," added d.i.c.k.

"I'll remember," answered Bert, as he touched the flag at his waist, and the look came into his eyes that they had learned to know.

A moment's breathless silence, while over a hundred trained athletes watched the starter, as he looked along the waiting line and slowly raised his pistol. A shot, a tremendous roar from the crowd, a rush of feet like a stampede of steers and they were off. A moment later Berlin knew that they had started. Five minutes later, all Europe knew it. Ten minutes later, America knew it. Two continents were watching the race, and beneath the gaze of these invisible witnesses the runners bounded on. All types were there; brawny Germans, giant Swedes, stolid Englishmen, rangy Canadians, dapper Frenchmen, swarthy Italians, lithe Americans--each one bound to win or go down fighting.

At first the going was rather hard on account of the great number of contenders. They got in each other's way. They were like a herd of fleeing deer, treading on each other's heels.

Bert's first impulse was to get out in front. Like every thoroughbred, he hated to have anyone show him the way. The sight of a runner ahead was like a red rag to a bull. But he restrained himself. If he were to win that race, he must use his brains as well as his legs. What use to waste his strength by trying to thread his way through those flying feet? Let them make the pace. By and by they would string out and the path would clear. In the meantime he would keep within striking distance.

As he ran on easily, Thornton ranged alongside.

"May I go with you, my pretty maid?" he grinned.

"You may if you like, kind sir, she said," retorted Bert.

"We must make it one, two, three for America, to-day," went on Thornton.

"That's the way to talk," replied Bert, and then, as breath was precious, they subsided.

The course led uphill and down, over country roads and through villages whose quaint beauty would have appealed to Bert under other circ.u.mstances. But to-day he had no eye for scenery, no thought of anything but the road that stretched before him like a ribbon, and the Stadium, so many miles away.

Five miles, ten, and the pace began to tell. Some had dropped out altogether and others were staggering. The sheep were being separated from the goats. The real runners were ranging up in front, watching each other like hawks, intent on seizing any advantage. Most of them by this time had found their second wind and settled into their stride. Some were running on a schedule and paid no attention to their compet.i.tors, serenely confident that in the long run their plan would carry them through.

But Bert had no use for schedules. To him they were like the schemes to break the bank at Monte Carlo, infallible on paper, but falling down sadly when put to the test. As he had told Tom on an earlier occasion, "it was men, not time, that he had to beat." So he kept a wary eye on the men in front and sped along with that easy swinging lope that seemed so easy to beat until one tried to do it.

Now fifteen miles had been covered and Bert let out a link. It would not do to wait too long before challenging the leaders. Dorner, the German, and Boudin, the Frenchman, were already far enough ahead to make him feel a trifle uneasy. Hallowell too and the Indian were a quarter of a mile in front and showed no signs of wavering. Now was the time to wear them down. Almost insensibly he lengthened his stride and with every leap decreased the distance. The crowd that lined the road, quick to detect the spurt, hailed him with cheers as he sped past, and the men in front, sensing danger, themselves put on extra speed and battled to retain the lead.

And now, Nature took a hand. A thunder storm that had been brewing for a half hour past, broke suddenly at the eighteenth mile, and the rain came down in torrents. It beat against their faces and drenched them to the skin. It cooled and refreshed their heated bodies, but it made the footing slippery and uncertain. It taxed, too, their strength and vitality, already strained to the utmost.

In the wild tumult of the elements, Bert exulted. The thunder roared, the lightning flashed, and his own spirit shouted in unison. It appealed to something primitive and elemental in his nature. And as he ran on in the gathering darkness, the vivid lightning playing in blinding flashes about his lithe figure and tossing hair, he seemed like a faun or a young G.o.d in the morning of the world, rather than a product of the twentieth century.

But he was quickly enough brought back to reality. He had overhauled Hallowell and the Indian, and set sail for the French and German runners, when, just as he dashed round the foot of a hill, he slipped on the wet going and swerved against a rock at the edge of the road. A keen pain shot through his foot, and he saw to his dismay that his right shoe had been slit from end to end by the sharp edge of the rock. The injury to the foot was only a scratch, but, when he tried to run, the shoe flapped loosely and threatened to throw him. A great fear came upon him, and his heart turned sick.

In the meantime, Reddy and the boys had ridden back by another road to Berlin. The trainer dropped Tom and d.i.c.k at the Stadium and then whirled back to the hotel. Here the American band was quartered and down this street the runners were to pa.s.s. Reddy sought out the leader. A short conference and the band gathered in full force on the balcony overlooking the street.

Reddy glanced at his watch. They must be coming now. The leader poised his baton expectantly.

"Wait," said Reddy confidently, "till the first one gets abreast of the hotel. Then let her go for all you're worth."

Minutes pa.s.sed that seemed like hours. Then there was a stir among the crowds, a craning of necks, a murmur growing into a roar, and the leading runner came in sight. Reddy took one look and turned pale. The leader lifted his baton as the runner drew nearer.

"Not yet," cried Reddy, clutching at him fiercely. "Not yet."

A second runner appeared and then a third.

"Not yet," groaned Reddy. "O, hivins, not yet."

Then down the street came a flying figure. Reddy needed no second glance. He knew that giant stride, those plunging leaps. On he came like a thunderbolt, and the crowd drew back as though from a runaway horse.

"Now," screamed Reddy. "Now."

And in one great crash the band broke out into the glorious strains of "The Star Spangled Banner."

Bert lifted his head. The music poured through his veins like liquid fire and his heart almost leaped from his body. His strength had been oozing away, his breath was coming in sobs. His shoes had been torn off and cast aside, his bruised feet tortured him at every stride, and every ounce of power had been cruelly taxed in the effort to close up the gap caused by the accident. Now he was running on his nerve. And just at this moment, like an electric shock to his ebbing strength, came the thrilling strains that might have stirred the dead:

"The Star Spangled Banner, oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave."

The flag, his flag, "Old Glory," never stained by defeat since it was flung to the breeze, victorious in every war for a hundred years, its shining stars undimmed by time, the pride and boast of the greatest country on G.o.d's green earth! His feverish fingers touched the sash at his waist. "We have met the enemy and they are ours." The Star-Spangled Banner!

Now he was running like a man possessed. Gone was pain, gone were bruises, gone the deadly weariness that dragged him down. His feet had wings. His heart sang. His eyes shone. He seemed inspired by superhuman strength. Like an arrow he shot past the Frenchman who was staggering on gamely, and step by step he gained on Dorner, the gallant German, who had been dubbed by his admirers "The Flying Dutchman."

Flying he certainly was, spurred on by the wild yells of the German crowds, mad with joy at seeing their colors in front. But the shouts died down as Bert slipped by like a shadow, relentless as fate, close on the heels of the leader, grimly fighting for every inch.

And now the Stadium loomed up, gay with flaunting flags, and packed to the doors with a countless mult.i.tude wild with excitement. The word had been flashed along that a German was leading, and the crowds were on their feet, screaming like madmen. The Emperor and royal family, all ceremony thrown aside, were standing and shouting like the rest. The American contingent, despair eating at their hearts, sat glum and silent.

The twenty-six miles had been measured to end at the very doors, and the remaining three hundred and eighty-five yards of the Marathon distance was in the Stadium itself. Dorner entered first and Pandemonium reigned.

Then a second figure shot through, running like the wind, at his belt the Stars and Stripes. And now it was America's turn to yell!

Down the stretch they came, see-sawing for the lead. Before them gleamed the tape that marked the finish. No one had ever yet broken that tape ahead of Bert in a race. He swore that no one should do it now.

Nearer and nearer. What was it the fellows had said? "For the college."

"For the team." "For the flag." "For America." He nerved himself for the last desperate spurt. Once more he called on the stout heart that had never failed him yet. A series of panther-like bounds, one wild tremendous leap and he snapped the tape. Again America had matched its best against the world, and again America had conquered!

It was a jubilant crowd that made the return voyage on the _Northland_, in the words of Tom, "one continuous joy ride." Training was over, the strain relaxed, the victory won. It had been a tussle from start to finish, but they had carried off the prize and one more series of Olympic games had been placed to Uncle Sam's credit. Thornton, Hallowell, Texanima, Brady and Casey had finished among the first ten and shared with Bert the honors of the Marathon. The Emperor himself had placed the laurel crown on Bert's head, and, as d.i.c.k said, proved himself "a dead game sport" by the gracious words with which he veiled his disappointment. Cable messages had poured in on Bert by the score, but none so pleasing as the one from Mr. Hollis: "You ran a magnificent race, my boy. The Perry flag is yours."

And now they were on their way home with their hard-won trophies--home to an exulting country, whose glory they had upheld and which stood impatient to greet them with rousing cheers and open arms and all the honors a grateful nation could bestow.

The praises rained on Bert had left him as natural and unspoiled as ever. To him the whole thing was simple. A task had been put before him and he had done it. That was all.

"'Twas me that did it," joked Reddy, "me and the band."

"Sure," laughed d.i.c.k, "though of course Bert's wind and speed counted for something."