Dick Randall Part 11

"Ten minutes past eight," he said. "Just a little longer, and them games will be going on, over at Hopevale. Too bad you can't see 'em; I guess they'll be a fine sight. They tell me this Dave Ellis is a likely man at all such things as that. I suppose most likely he'll beat."

d.i.c.k did not deign a reply. In their long, solitary sojourn together, he had become accustomed to his captor's ideas of humor. So that now, he did not even permit his eyes to meet those of his tormentor, but gazed steadily past him, toward the door of the carriage house. "Ten minutes past eight," he reflected; "it is too late--nothing could help me now."

And then, like lightning from a clear sky, came the climax to all this startling series of events. For even as he looked, slowly and cautiously he beheld the door of the harness-room slide back, and the next instant there appeared in the doorway the figure of Duncan McDonald, a revolver in his outstretched hand.

The look of amazement in d.i.c.k's eyes must have warned his jailer, for he wheeled sharply, to find himself looking into the muzzle of McDonald's pistol. Then came the quick command, "Hands up, lively,"

and as he reluctantly obeyed, McDonald called sharply, "All right, Joe. Come on. Go through his pockets, now."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Hands up, lively," McDonald called]

d.i.c.k started with surprise and pity, as the little French Canadian limped forward into the room. His face was deathly pale, and streaked and matted with blood. Yet he went resolutely at his task, and a moment later drew out from the man's pocket a big revolver, and handed it to McDonald. The latter smiled grimly. "Now cut d.i.c.k loose," he directed, and Joe quickly obeyed. With a long sigh of relief, Randall managed to struggle to his feet, walking haltingly around till the thickened blood began once more to stir into life. McDonald motioned to the door. "Hurry, d.i.c.k," he said, "Joe will show you. Down the path. I've got a team. And food, and a set of my running things.

Hurry, now. I'll be with you in a minute. I'm going to keep a watch on your friend here, till you give a yell to show you're ready to start."

Fifteen minutes later they had left the woods and were speeding down the road toward Hopevale. d.i.c.k's face was transfigured. With every turn of the wheels, he was coming back to himself. A chance was left him after all.

"How did it all happen, Duncan?" he asked, and hurriedly and disjointedly McDonald told him the tale.

"Joe saw something shining up in a tree, last night," he said; "thought it was queer. Went to investigate. Man had been up there, watching us with a field-gla.s.s. Joe stumbled on him, talking with another fellow--this chap that had you tied up there in the barn. Joe can't tell me the whole thing, but I gather they had something in for you, about the Pentathlon. I guess they wanted Ellis to win. So Joe heard 'em say they were going to get you, and carry you off to Smith's old barn. He started home to put us wise, and as bad luck would have it, he pitched down a gully, and cracked his head open. I went looking for him about ten o'clock, and I was in the woods all night. Never found him till five this morning. He'd come to, poor little rascal, and was trying to crawl home, but he was so weak he could hardly stir.

But he got out his story, and you can bet I did some quick thinking.

"First, I was going up to town, to telephone the school, and see if you were all right. And then I thought, if I did that, it might waste too much time, and if things had gone wrong, I might be too late, after all. So I went back to the house, got together my running things and the grub you've just been eating, and then hustled off to my nearest neighbor's, and did a little burglar act. This is his favorite colt we're driving; I knew this fellow could eat up a dozen miles in jig time, and so--I took him. The old man had gone up to town with a load of garden truck. His wife tried to stop me taking the horse, but I brandished my revolver at her, and she ran. I suppose she thought I was crazy, And then Joe piloted me to the barn--I'd never have found it by myself in a hundred years--so here we are." He pulled out his watch. "Ten minutes of nine, and ten miles to go. We're all right on time. But you must feel pretty stiff, d.i.c.k; I don't know whether you can do yourself justice or not."

d.i.c.k stretched himself. "Oh, I'm limbering up a little," he answered, "I think a good rub will help a lot. And I don't feel tired. The excitement, I suppose. I guess I'll last through, all right. But oh, I'm grateful to you and Joe, Duncan; thank Heaven, you came when you did. If I'd missed the Pentathlon, I'd never have got over it in the world."

McDonald smiled, the smile of a man looking back over his own boyhood.

"We get over a lot of things, d.i.c.k, in a lifetime," he answered, "but I know just how you feel. I guess Joe did all he could to square up with you for helping him, and I'm mighty glad we got there in time."

CHAPTER X

THE PENTATHLON

Doctor Merrifield, the elderly, gray-haired princ.i.p.al of Hopevale, turned with a smile of satisfaction to his guest. "A record day, Mr.

Graham," he said, "and a record crowd. I think we may mutually congratulate ourselves."

The head master of Clinton nodded in reply. "Indeed we may, Doctor,"

he answered. "Of course the fact that it's graduation week: has something to do with it, but even then, I have never seen a gathering like this, in the history of the schools."

There was good reason for their words. Mid-June had made its most graceful bow to the world. A warm sun shone down over Hopevale Oval; a cool breeze blew pleasantly across the field. The track itself had never looked so well. It had been rolled, sc.r.a.ped, re-rolled once more; the whitewashed lines had been neatly marked at start and finish; the lanes for the hundred freshly staked out. Altogether, the track keeper had done his work to perfection, and a man beaten in the Pentathlon, whatever other reason he might have given for his defeat, could scarcely have complained of the conditions under which he was competing.

Equally good were the arrangements on the field. The high-jump path was hard and smooth as a floor; a new cross bar was stretched across the standards; a dozen extra ones lay ready at hand, in case of accident to the one in use. The ring for the shot put was in first-cla.s.s shape; two shots, one iron, one lead, lay close by.

Three or four hammer rings were clearly marked on the smooth, closely-cropped green turf. The most critical old-timer who ever wore a shoe could not have found fault with the preparations for the meet.

And many a man, indeed, who had been famous in his day, sat in the rows of seats which surrounded the Oval, eager to see the final contest for the cup, whose possession meant so much to the school victorious in this hard and well-fought fight. Fathers, uncles, elder brothers, small boys looking forward to the day when they, in turn, would take their places in the family procession, and come to Clinton, Fenton or Hopevale, as the case might be; all were present in the stands. Nor was it, by any means, a gathering of men and boys alone.

Mothers, aunts, sisters, most of whom knew little of athletics, and had but the haziest idea of all that was going forward, lent, none the less, a charm of bright dresses and brighter faces, to the scene. And though the games were held at Hopevale, it was no mere local crowd of spectators which had a.s.sembled to watch them. The colors of the home school were naturally enough in the ascendant, but train after train had brought its cheering followers of the two rival academies, and the red and black of Clinton, and the crimson of Fenton, vied with the Hopevale blue.

Doctor Merrifield looked across the track. "Here comes our friend Fenton," he observed, "and evidently in a hurry, too."

Mr. Fenton walked rapidly up to them, his face puzzled and anxious.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said. "I find myself involved in a most unaccountable mystery. I don't suppose either of you has heard any word of Randall, our entry in the Pentathlon?"

Both of his colleagues gazed at him in astonishment. "Are you serious?" said Mr. Graham, while the doctor said, "You don't mean to tell us he isn't here. Why, it only lacks five minutes to ten."

Mr. Fenton sighed. "I can't understand it," he said, "and I can't help being a little bit worried. I've notified the authorities, but haven't heard a single word of him since yesterday afternoon. It's a most extraordinary thing. And apart from my anxiety for Randall, it seems hard to say good-by to our chances for the cup. However, the fortunes of war--"

Mr. Graham interrupted him. "Why, we don't want anything like that to happen," he said, "we'll waive our rule, I'm sure. Won't we, Doctor?

We can postpone the meet for a time."

Mr. Fenton made an eloquent gesture toward the crowded stands. "I couldn't ask it," he said decidedly. "You're very kind to suggest it, Graham, and I appreciate it. But if the positions were reversed, I shouldn't expect you to ask the favor of me. It would never do to interrupt the order of exercises, and disappoint a gathering of this size. It would be a reflection, it seems to me, on our ability to conduct our schools. No, I thank you, but, as I said before, it's the fortune of war. Your boys must fight it out between themselves. I suppose some day this will all be explained--"

An outburst of Hopevale cheers broke in on him. Dave Ellis, looking in the very top-notch of condition, was walking leisurely across the field. A moment later, Johnson's lithe figure emerged from the dressing-room, and Clinton applauded in their turn. And then, even as they stood listening to the tumult, they were aware of a growing confusion at the entrance to the field, out of which presently emerged two rather disheveled looking figures, making toward the locker building at a hurried pace. At the same instant broke forth a roar from the Fenton section, "Randall, Randall, Randall!" and Mr. Fenton, taking an abrupt leave of his a.s.sociates, started across the field, as fast as his legs could carry him. "Thank Heaven," he muttered to himself, "nothing serious has happened to him. But what can the trouble have been?"

He found Randall hastily dressing. d.i.c.k looked up at him with what was meant for a smile. "Can't explain now, Mr. Fenton," he said hurriedly.

"It wasn't my fault. I'm lucky to be here. If it hadn't been for McDonald and Joe, I shouldn't be. But I'll tell you the whole story later. I've got just time for my rub-down now."

For five minutes, McDonald's skilful hands worked over the stiffened muscles, and as d.i.c.k jogged across to the start, he felt that his speed and spring were in some measure returning. Yet the hundred yards was disappointing. Johnson ran first, and moved down the track like a race-horse, traveling in first-cla.s.s form, and making the distance in ten and three-fifths. Ellis ran second, and did eleven flat. d.i.c.k, a little unnerved by all he had been through, made a false start--something most unusual for him--and was set back a yard. Then, in his anxiety not to commit the same fault a second time, he got away poorly, and finished in the slowest time of the three--eleven and one-fifth. It was excellent scoring, for a start, and Johnson was credited with eighty-three points, Ellis with seventy-five and d.i.c.k with seventy-one.

With the shot put, the lead changed. Johnson, considering his lighter weight, performed splendidly, making an even thirty-six feet. d.i.c.k found that his stiffness did not bother him nearly so much as it had done in the dash, and made his best put of the year, thirty-eight, nine. But Ellis surpa.s.sed himself, and on his last attempt, broke the league record, with a drive of forty-one, two. His seventy-two points loomed large, by the side of d.i.c.k's sixty and Johnson's forty-seven, and the score-board showed:

Ellis 147 Randall 131 Johnson 130

Next, the high jump was called, and all three boys kept up the same good work. There was small reason, indeed, why they should not have been at their best. School spirit was rampant; it was to watch them that these cheering hundreds had crowded the field; every successful jump, from the lowest height of all, was applauded to the echo. Ellis, as was expected, was the first to fail, but he managed to clear five feet, two, and added fifty-four points to his score. d.i.c.k, a little handicapped by the strain of the preceding night, could feel that his muscles were not quite at their best, yet his long period of careful training had put him in good shape, and helped out by the excitement of the compet.i.tion, he finally cleared five feet, eight. Johnson did an inch better, and only just displaced the bar at five feet, ten, scoring seventy-seven points to d.i.c.k's seventy-four. The three compet.i.tors were now practically tied, and volley after volley of cheers rang out across the field from every section of the crowd.

Johnson 207 Randall 205 Ellis 201

The record was going to be broken, not by one man alone, but by all three. So much was evident, and the crowd awaited the hurdle race with the most eager expectancy. d.i.c.k ran first, and finished in seventeen and two-fifths; Ellis, his heavy build telling against him, in spite of his efforts, could do no better than eighteen, two, and then Johnson electrified the crowd by coming through, true and strong, in sixteen, four. His eighty-four points put him well in the lead, while Randall's seventy-three gave him a clear gain over Ellis, who, with fifty-eight, now brought up the rear.

Johnson 289 Randall 278 Ellis 259

And yet, in spite of the score, Hopevale was jubilant. For the one remaining event was the hammer throw, where Ellis was supreme, and here they expected to see their champion wipe out his opponents' lead, and finish a winner, with plenty to spare.

Each contestant was allowed three throws, and on the first round it seemed as though the predictions of the home man's admirers were coming true. Johnson threw one hundred and twenty-two feet and seven inches; and then Ellis, taking his stand confidently inside the circle, made a beautiful effort of one hundred and fifty-nine feet.

McDonald figured hastily in his score book, and came up to Randall.

"Don't be scared, d.i.c.k," he said, "one hundred and forty-five feet, and you'll still be ahead of him. And that's only a practice throw for you now."

d.i.c.k nodded. And yet, although he kept his own counsel, he knew only too well that the worry and anxiety of his long night's captivity were at last beginning to make themselves felt. His head felt heavy; his legs weak; he doubted whether he could make the hundred and forty-five. And then, taking his turn, his worst fears were realized.

He made a fair throw, indeed, staying well inside the circle, but there was little dash behind it, and when the scorer announced, "One hundred and thirty-eight eleven," d.i.c.k knew that Ellis was in the lead.