Frank Merriwell's Races Part 51

"Are you in training for a race?"

"Not exactly."

"How long would it take for you to put yourself in condition?"

"Possibly a week."

"What are you good for--a short dash, or a long run?"

"I think I can do either fairly well."

"Fairly well does not go at Yale, as you know, Merriwell. You must do things exceptionally well. You are altogether too modest. If something had not brought you out, n.o.body could have known you could do anything at all. You have been pushed in various ways by others, but you fail to push yourself."

"Oh, I do not go about blowing my own horn," said Frank, smiling.

"You will find you'll have to blow your own horn when you go into business, or my brother is a liar. He keeps hammering at me that the man who does not blow his horn is the fellow who gets left. To a large extent, it is that way here at Yale. The fellow who keeps still and sits back gets left. That's my sermon. I'm not going to say any more now. Get into training for a long run. I'll come round at nine this evening and go you a sprint of a mile or two, just to see how you show up."

That was all. Pierson turned and sauntered away, without another word.

Frank whistled softly, and smiled.

"This is Browning's work," he muttered. "Pierson takes things for granted. How does he know I will take any part in a race? He does not ask if I will, but he tells me to go to work and get into shape. He is coming round to-night to see how I show up. All right."

At ten minutes of nine that evening, Paul Pierson rapped on the door of Merriwell's room, and was invited to walk in. He was in a rig for running, and he immediately said:

"Come, come! get out of those duds, Merriwell. You are to run with me to-night."

"How far?"

"From one to five miles, as I take a fancy."

"Oh, well, I won't change my clothes for a little thing like that," said Frank, carelessly.

"You'd better," declared Paul. "I'm going to give you a hustle, and you'll find you can keep up better if you are in a suitable rig."

"I'll take the chances of keeping just as I am."

Pierson's teeth came together with a click. He did not like that, although he tried not to show it.

"The fellow thinks he can outrun me on a long pull, as he happened to do so for a short distance once on a time," he thought. "I'll see if I can fool him."

Pierson considered himself an excellent long-distance runner, although he seldom took part in races, realizing that, good though he was, there were still better men.

Frank had on a loose thin shirt, and a light-weight suit of clothes. He caught up a cap, and announced that he was ready to go with Paul.

They went out, and soon were crossing the campus. Having arrived at a point quite outside the college grounds, Paul paused and said:

"We will start from here and make a run out into the country. I will set the pace going out, but when we turn to come back, it will be a case of the best man gets home first. The termination of the run will be your room."

"That is satisfactory," nodded Frank.

Far away a band of jolly students were singing "Stars of the Summer Night," their melodious voices making sweet music beneath the great elms. The soft breath of June came across the campus, seeming to gently bear the words of the beautiful song to their ears.

"Are you ready?" asked Pierson, sharply.

"All ready."

"Then here we go."

They were off, shoulder to shoulder.

Although Frank had not seemed to prepare for the run, he had put on his running shoes, feeling that he might absolutely need them.

Along the streets of New Haven they went, attracting but little attention, as it was not an uncommon sight at that season to see some of the college lads taking a night run in that manner.

They pa.s.sed a group of fellows who were standing beneath a street light near a corner.

"Here!" softly exclaimed one of the group; "who are these chaps?"

The entire party turned to take a look at the runners.

"It's Pierson----"

"And Merriwell!"

"What did I tell you, Yates!" exclaimed Fred Flemming, a ring of satisfaction in his voice.

"Well, may I be kicked!" growled Duncan Yates, as he started after the two lads, who had pa.s.sed and were scudding along the street at a steady trot.

"Flem seldom makes a mistake," murmured Tom Thornton.

"But Merriwell is not in his rig," said Andy Emery, the fourth one of the group.

"That doesn't make any difference," declared Flemming. "He is taking a run with Pierson, and that proves what I told Yates. You all know how that chap undermined me on the crew. I don't say that he can't row, mind you--I do not claim that I could have done any better than he did; but I do claim that he is full of such sneaking underhand tricks, and I knew he was trying for something when I saw him stop Pierson on the campus to-day."

Yates was silent, staring along the street, down which the two runners had disappeared.

"Come, old man!" cried Flemming, slapping Yates on the back, "let's go into Morey's and sit down, where we can have a drink and talk this matter over."

Duncan shook his head.

"I won't go in there," he said.

"Why not?"

"I am in training, you know, and somebody would see me drinking there.

That would kick up some talk."