The Jester of St. Timothy's Part 13

It was not for long; they brought him to with water, and Westby knelt by him fanning his face with the skirt of his dressing gown. Barclay picked the boy up. "Oh, I'm all right, sir," said Price, and he insisted on being allowed to walk to the athletic house alone,-which he did rather shakily.

Westby flirted the cinders from the skirt of his dressing gown. "Blamed little fool," he remarked to Carroll and to Allison, who stood by.

"Wouldn't his mother give me the d.i.c.kens, though, for letting him do that!" But Irving, who heard, knew there was a ring of pride in Westby's voice-as if Westby felt that his cousin was a credit to the family. And Irving thought he was.

The sports went on; not many of the runs were as exciting as that with which the afternoon had opened. Irving pa.s.sed back and forth across the field, helped measure distances for the handicaps, and tried to be useful. His interest had certainly been awakened. Twice in college he had sat on the "bleachers" and viewed indifferently the track contests between Yale and Harvard; he had had a patriotic desire to see his own college win, but he had been indifferent to the performance of the individuals. They had not been individuals to him-merely strange figures performing in an arena. But here, where he knew the boys and walked about among them, and saw the different manifestations of nervousness and excitement, and watched the muscles in their slim legs and arms, he became himself eager and sympathetic. He stood by when Scarborough went on putting the shot after beating all the other compet.i.tors-went on putting it in an attempt to break the School record. Unconsciously Irving pressed forward to see him as he prepared for the third and last try; unconsciously he stood with lips parted and eyes shining, fascinated by the huge muscles that rose in Scarborough's brown arm as he poised the weight at his shoulder and heaved it tentatively. And when it was announced that the effort had fallen short by only a few inches, Irving's sigh of disappointment went up with that of the boys.

At intervals the races were run off-the two-twenty, the quarter-mile, the half-mile, the high hurdles, the low hurdles. Irving started them all without any mishap. The last one, the low hurdles for two hundred and twenty yards, was exciting; the runners were all well matched and the handicaps were small. And so, after firing the revolver, Irving started and ran across the field as hard as he could, to be at the finish; he arrived in time, and stood, still holding the revolver in his hand, while Morrill and Flack and Mason raced side by side to the tape.

They finished in that order, not more than a yard apart; and Irving rammed his revolver into his pocket and clapped his hands and cheered with the Corinthians.

The Pythians were now two points ahead, and there remained only one event, the hundred yards. First place counted five points and second place two; in these games third place did not count. So if a Corinthian should win the hundred yards, the Corinthians would be victorious in the meet by one point.

There were eight entries in the hundred yards-a large number to run without interfering with one another. But the track was wide, and two of the boys had handicaps of ten yards, one had five yards, and one had three. So they were spread out pretty well at the start, and consequently the danger of interference was minimized.

The runners threw off their dressing gowns and took their places. Drake, Flack, Westby, and Mason lined up at scratch,-Westby having drawn the inside place and being flanked by the two Pythians. There was a moment's pawing of the cinders, and settling down firmly on the spikes.

"Ready, everybody!" cried Irving. He drew the revolver from his pocket and held it aloft. He was as excited as any of the runners; there was the nervous thrill in his voice. "On your marks!" They put their hands to the ground; he ran his eyes along them to see that all were placed.

"Set!" There was the instant stiffening of muscles. Then from the revolver came a click. Irving had emptied the six chambers in starting the other races, and had forgotten to reload.

"Just a moment, fellows; ease off!" he called, and they all straightened up and faced towards him questioningly. "Just till I slip in a cartridge," Irving explained with embarra.s.sment.

Westby turned on him a delighted grin, and said,-

"Can I be of any a.s.sistance, Mr. Upton?"

"No, thank you," said Irving, and having slipped in one cartridge, he began filling the other chambers of the revolver.

"It takes only one shot to start," observed Westby.

"Yes," said Irving. "If I fire a second, it will be to call you back because of a false start.-Now then,-all ready once more. On your marks!"

They crouched. "Set!" He fired.

Somehow in the start Westby's foot slipped, and in trying to get clear he lunged against Flack. Irving saw it and instantly fired a second shot, and shouted, "Come back, come back!" The runners heeded the signal and the shout, but as they tiptoed up the track, they looked irritated.

"Westby, you fouled Flack." Irving spoke with some asperity. "I shall have to set you back a yard."

"It was an accident," Westby replied warmly. "My foot slipped. I couldn't help myself."

"But it was a foul," declared Irving, "and I shall have to set you back a yard."

"It was an accident, I tell you," repeated Westby.

"If it was an accident, you oughtn't to set him back," said Drake, his fellow Corinthian.

"It's in the starter's discretion," spoke up Mason, the Pythian.

"The penalty's a yard," affirmed Irving.

Westby shut his lips tight and looked angrily contemptuous. Irving measured the distance. "There," he said, "you will start there."

Westby took the place behind the others without a word.

"Ready now! On your marks!"

The pistol cracked, and this time they all got away safely, and Irving raced after them over the gra.s.s.

From the crowd at the finish came the instant shout of names; out of the short choppy cries two names especially emerged, "Flack! Flack! Flack!"

"Westby! Westby! Westby!" Those two were the favorites for the event.

Irving saw the scratch men forge ahead, and mingle with the handicap runners; in the confusion of flying white figures he could not see who were leading. But the tumult near the finish grew wild; arms and caps were swung aloft, boys were leaping up and down; the red-haired Dennison ran along the edge of the track, waving his arms; Morrill on the other side did the same thing; the next moment the race had ended in a tumultuous rush of shouting boys.

[Ill.u.s.tration: AS TO WHO HAD WON, IRVING HAD NOT THE SLIGHTEST IDEA]

As to who had won, Irving had not the slightest idea. He was hastening up to find out-hoping that it had been Westby. And then out from the crowd burst Westby and rushed towards him, panting, flushed, hot-eyed, attended by Morrill and half a dozen other Corinthians.

"I hope you're satisfied with your spite-work," said Westby. His voice shook with pa.s.sion, his eyes blazed; never before had Irving seen him when he had so lost control of himself. "You lost me that race-by half a yard! I hope you're pleased with yourself!"

He surveyed Irving scornfully, breathing hard, then turned his back and strode off to the athletic house.

CHAPTER VII

THE WORM BEGINS TO TURN

After the charge which Westby had flung at him so furiously, Irving looked in amazement to the other boys for an explanation. They were all Corinthians, and he saw gloom and resentment in their faces.

"I think it was pretty rough, Mr. Upton, to penalize him for an unintentional foul," said Morrill. "He'd have beaten Flack if they'd started even."

"But it _was_ a foul," protested Irving. "So I had to penalize him. I made it as small a penalty as I could."

"You didn't have to penalize him unless you wanted to," said Morrill grimly. "Of course you had a perfect right to do as you pleased, only-"

He shrugged his shoulders and walked away, followed by the other Corinthians.

Irving stood stricken. So this was the outcome; in seeking to be sympathetic and to be understood, he had only caused himself somehow to be more hated and despised. Bitterness rose within him, bitterness against Westby, against Morrill, against boys in general, against the school. And only an hour ago, from what he had seen and heard, he had felt that he could like Westby, and had been not without some hope that Westby might some time like him.

He saw Barclay standing with Mr. Randolph by the table on which were the prize cups; Barclay was bending over, arranging them, and the boys were gathering on the opposite side of the track, being "policed back" by the half-dozen members of the athletic committee. Evidently the award of prizes was to be made at once, and either Barclay or Randolph was to hand out the cups-perhaps also to make a speech. But Irving could not wait; he must satisfy himself of his doubts and fears, and so he hurried forward and touched Barclay on the shoulder.

"Just a moment, please," he said, as Barclay turned. "Did I do anything wrong?"

"You penalized Westby a yard for fouling, I heard; is that so?"

"Yes."

"Well, you were within your rights. But if it was obviously an unintentional foul, I shouldn't have been so strict."

"I misunderstood what you told me," sighed Irving. "I thought that in case of foul a fellow _had_ to be penalized."

"Oh, no." Barclay was busy; he had to think up something to say, by way of a speech, and he turned and began fussing again with the cups.