The tiny hall in Society House was crowded when Wayne and Don entered at a little before eight. All the candidates for the track team, the crew, the football team, and the baseball nine were there, and a group of five graduates were talking together by the stage. At the latter Wayne looked with some curiosity. Gardiner topped them all by half a head. Kirk, the old baseball player, looked like a pygmy beside him. Don pointed out the others: Barret, the renowned hurdler; Burns, once a famous sprinter; and Kenyon, holder of the intercollegiate two-hundred-and-twenty-yard record. Paddy joined them and the three found seats near the front. Then Dave entered and squeezed into a three-inch space between Wayne and Paddy.

“How’d they go, Dave?” asked Don.

“Rotten; I can’t throw a hammer. I used to think I could, but – ” He shook his head sadly.

“Go on wid yer,” said Paddy. “Yez kin bate thim all if yez ’ud only think so. – But what in the name of goodness was the matter with you to-day?” he asked, turning to Wayne. Wayne smiled cheerfully and shook his head.

“Blest if I know, Paddy. I guess I’m like Dave; I used to think I could run, but – ” He shook his head in mimicry of Dave and wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.

“Well, you’re all a sorry lot,” said Paddy in disgust. “All except Don, and he can’t help winning, hang him!” Further compliments were interrupted by the appearance of Professor Beck and the former football coach, Stephen Remsen. Paddy jumped to his feet.

“Now then, fellows,” he cried, facing the hall, “three times three for Remsen!” The cheers were given with a will and the recipient bowed his thanks smilingly. Then Professor Beck took the platform, and, after a few words of criticism on the day’s events, read the training table list. Sixteen fellows were selected to go to “Mother” Burke’s in the village, and twelve were named for a table in the school dining room. Wayne’s name was on neither list and he shot an inquiring glance at Don. The latter whispered:

“It’s all right. You’ll go to table later.”

Two of the graduates, fine, healthy-looking men, took their turns after the professor and pointed out some defects in the afternoon’s performances, spoke encouragingly to the fellows, and were cheered as they took their seats. Then Remsen arose and the little audience became on the instant as quiet as though made up of so many wax figures. Remsen was more than a Hillton graduate, more than a successful coach; he was a sort of school deity whom successive classes had long worshiped. In his school days he had been stroke in a winning crew, had excelled with the weights, and had been captain of the football eleven when it had devastated the surrounding country of laurels. These things are enough to place a man’s name high on the roster of fame and to earn him gratitude. But besides this Remsen had been football coach for three years, during which time the team had won two victories from and played a tie with St. Eustace; and always, ever since his graduation, he had labored unceasingly for the school and had done more than any other individual toward establishing its athletics on a firm, stable, and honest basis.

In appearance he was about thirty years of age, and “football man” was stamped all over his well-built frame. He was the kind of man for whom one would have predicted success in whatever undertaking he had entered. His face was handsome and manly; his eyes gray and clear; and his smile worth seeing. Hillton was proud of him, from its principal to its smallest junior, and he was proud of Hillton. When the fellows had stopped clapping he began to speak.

“I’ve been asked by your principal to say a few words to you this evening. I make this statement before I begin, so that if I bore you, you will know where to lay the blame. Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Barret have told you some things that it will be worth your while to remember and to profit by; because they know just what they are talking about. But if I undertook to criticise what I saw this afternoon – aside from the work of the fellows who scattered the hammers and shots around – I should be out of my depth; I wouldn’t know a hurdle from a stop-watch if I met them together. What little I know about weights I am willing to talk about. But I’ll do that to-morrow, when I hope to meet the weight men on the campus. And as to football, why, if there is anything that Mr. Gardiner has forgotten to say I’ll be glad to say it before I leave.

“To-night I should like to say a few words about training and athletics in general. I am glad to see so much interest displayed in the approaching interscholastic meeting. I hope we’ll win it. We’ve lost it with good grace for two years past; I think we could win it with even better grace. But if we don’t come out on top this spring, why, I’m sure that we can give the other schools some points in the art of losing. It’s a great thing to be able to lose well; much greater than being able to win well. I think we do both well here at Hillton, but there may be room for improvement; there usually is everywhere. It’s fine to win. I’d rather win any day than to lose. But I don’t always manage it. And it’s got to be the same way with a track team or a football eleven or a crew. Sometimes it has got to come in second; perhaps third. If no crew was willing to accept second place there wouldn’t be any races, and soon there wouldn’t be any crews.

“I have a youngster at home; he isn’t very big yet – just put on his first pair of trousers the other day – but he looks a good deal like a football man already. Some day I expect he’ll come here to school. If he does I hope he will row on the crew and play on the eleven or the nine, and, if he can, run well or leap the hurdles. But if I had my way I’d fix his victories and defeats for him in about a proportion of one victory to nine defeats. For it isn’t winning that helps a fellow get a good hard grip on the world, but losing. Yes, fellows, a boy or a man will learn more wisdom – good, useful, every-day wisdom – in one defeat than he will in nine victories. It would be a hard course for Remsen, Jr., but it would make a better man out of him in the end than would a whole eight years of first prizes. So don’t despise defeat, as long as it is honorable. Learn to make the most of it. Don’t feel down-hearted for more than two minutes and a half; that’s quite long enough for regrets. Cheer the victors, and go back and try again. Don’t blame the other man because he won – it was probably your own fault; but shake hands with him and, if you must, tell him to look out for his laurels next time. Defeat ought to teach us courage, perseverance, manliness, good temper, and self-possession – all good things to learn. As I look back on my school and college days I can remember occasions when I won bigger victories through defeat than when I rowed in a winning crew or played on a winning team.

“But that’s enough about losing. You’ll think that I’m a bird of ill omen, I’m afraid. So let’s talk about something else. I wonder how many of you fellows realize the fact that all the hard work and training you have gone through with and are still undergoing is not, after all, a preparation toward winning a track meeting or a boat race? Did you ever stop to ask yourselves what the right aim of athletics is – what the chief aim should be? Some of you will answer: ‘That’s easy; the chief aim of athletics is winning.’ Wrong; the true aim of all athletics, the world around, is physical culture. Winning is of small importance; contests are only incentives. We go in for athletics because we wish to attain to a condition of physical fitness that will allow us to make the most of our lives. Athletics without training is useless; it will accomplish almost nothing good. I use the word training here in its fullest meaning: moderation in diet and exercise, temperance and regularity in daily life, cleanliness and self-restraint. We train in order that the actual athletics will benefit us. I might go through the most approved course of chest-weight and dumb-bell exercise, but if, as soon as it was over, I went to the table and stuffed my stomach full of indigestible food, drank a lot of liquor, smoked a lot of cigarettes or cigars, stayed up every night until one or two o’clock, took no outdoor exercise and breathed impure air all day, why, I might as well let the chest weights alone so far as any benefit is concerned. Athletics require training, whether we are going to compete in sports or not; and training means power to perform hard tasks with a modicum of fatigue and often with enjoyment; it enables the body to endure hardships, heat, cold, or fasting, without becoming endangered, and it clears the cobwebs out of the brain.

“Unusual strains without previous preparation will often prove injurious. Training prepares us for those strains; our ability to meet them increases as the training advances. The best training is that which trains all parts of the body in unison. Don’t allow your exercise to develop one physical portion of your body at the cost of any other; because you are going to throw weights don’t neglect your leg muscles; because you are going to try for the one-hundred-yard dash don’t neglect your arms. In short, avoid becoming a ‘specialist’ as much as possible. Keep in mind the fact that general health and not success at one feat is the end of athletic training.

“I’m doing a good deal more talking than I intended to, and I dare say I’m boring you badly, just as I feared I should. But there is one more thing that I want to touch on while I’ve got you where you can’t get away, and that – ”

“Go on! We like it!” shouted a boy at the back of the room; and the audience clapped and laughed its approval.

“Well, that’s very good of you,” Remsen continued smilingly. “But I’m about through. If I was – well, a kind of athletic dictator in this country, I should require from every fellow a verbal signature to this pledge: ‘I will always play fair!’ It isn’t a very long pledge, but it means a good deal, as you will see if you’ll consider it. If every schoolboy, whether an athlete or a grind, and every college man would sign it and stick to it, we’d never hear of one school’s having ‘severed athletic relations’ with another; there’d be no brawling in football games, and we’d never see the charge of professionalism brought against a college. And it is a pledge that we need not leave behind us when we graduate; it’s a good pledge to stick to right through life.

“I have no fault to find with Hillton athletes on the score of unfairness. I earnestly believe that athletics are pure here; but I’m not going to assume any ‘holier than thou’ attitude; and I hope you won’t. Let us keep them as pure as we can and give an unobtrusive lesson to other schools – yes, and colleges. That’s all I’ve got to say, fellows. I thank you for listening so kindly.”

Ere the cheer had started Don was on his feet.

“Mr. Remsen,” he cried, “won’t you put that pledge to us? I’m sure every fellow here will sign it gladly.”

A chorus of assent arose and much clapping. Remsen turned back to the audience and held up his hand.

“You’ve heard what Cunningham has said. Nothing would please me more than to have you all accept that pledge. Shall I put it to you?”

One deep, hearty “Yes” swept through the room.

“Very well. Suppose you take the pledge by rising. If there are any here who for any reason prefer not to pledge themselves I hope they will keep their seats without any embarrassment. There may be some here to-night who are so certain of their ability to always act rightly that they will not deem a pledge necessary. I shall think no less of those who decline to go through the form.”

The speaker paused and looked about the hall, a smiling brightness in his gray eyes.

“Then after me, fellows, and rise. ‘I will always play fair.’”

“I will always play fair.” The response was earnest and hearty, and before the last word had died away every person in the hall was on his feet – graduates, Professor Beck, and all; not a person remained seated.

Stephen Remsen looked for a moment into the dozens of earnest faces before him. Then: “God send we can keep that pledge!” he said soberly.

Whereupon “Pigeon” Wallace leaped on to a chair and the cheering began.

CHAPTER XXII
DAVE IS MADE HAPPY

On Monday Wayne went to the track at three o’clock and found Professor Beck instructing the broad jumpers who were tearing up the newly turned loam with great gusto. A freckled-faced boy came hurtling through the air and plumped ankle-deep in the brown soil, and the professor held the end of the tape to the heel mark.

“Twenty-one feet seven and a half, Gaffney,” he announced. “That will do for to-day. Take your run on the track, and don’t let yourself get stiff.” He moved the rake which he held over the loam, obliterating the marks, and turned to Wayne.

“Well, my boy, Cunningham tells me that you’re not satisfied with Saturday’s results. You think you can do considerably better if you keep on, do you?”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure of it.”

“Very well. I’ll tell you what we’ve decided to do. We’ll go ahead as before, except that we’ll give more attention to short distances, and a week from Wednesday I’ll give you a trial over the mile. If you can do it in 5.15 we’ll send you to training table, and if you continue to improve you’ll go with the team. But first you’ve got to go around the track six times with your arms swinging; after you have got so that you can do that and do it with a decent amount of speed we’ll go on. Does that satisfy you?”

“Yes, sir. May I run now?”

“As soon as you like.”

Wayne threw aside his wraps and limbered up. In a few moments he trotted back.

“All ready, sir.”

“Never mind the pistol; start yourself. I’ll keep an eye on you.” Wayne looked down threateningly at each hand, got on the mark and sprang away.

“Take it easy, Gordon,” called the professor, “and remember those arms!”

The arms behaved nicely until Wayne fell to wondering how fast he was going; then they strode up to his breast and remained unnoticed for a hundred yards. After that the boy kept one eye on the track and one on his arms and finally finished the three quarters.

“Hard work, was it?” asked Professor Beck with a smile.

“Yes, sir, kind of. But it won’t be so hard next time.”

“All right. Get your coat on and keep moving for a while. Then try the starts with the others.”

The next afternoon Wayne did a half mile in good time with his hands and arms where they belonged, and after that for the rest of the week the training went on as theretofore, save that he was put over numerous short distances to develop his speed and substituted three-mile walks for the usual runs across country. He made progress almost at once; on Wednesday he covered the four hundred and forty yards in 0.56⅗, and began to consider himself something of a sprinter, even though the first man in the race reached the tape in 0.52⅕. He was on the track every day that week except Thursday and Saturday; on Thursday he was ordered off by Professor Beck and told to rest, and on Saturday he went over the road for a stiff walk with several other long-distance men.

It was while he was crossing the green to the gymnasium after that walk that Dave lumbered across the turf toward him, swinging his sweater excitedly around his head.

“One hundred and forty-six!” he yelled exultantly.

“Who? What?” asked Wayne.

“Me! The hammer!” answered Dave, smiting the other joyfully on the back with a force that nearly upset him. “I threw it!”

“Really? I’m awfully glad. How’d it happen?”

“Why, you see – well, I don’t quite know. But Remsen’s been coaching us every day since Monday, as you know. He’s told me all along that there was something wrong with my swing, but he couldn’t tell what. But to-day he grabbed the hammer away from me, told me to watch it, and sent it spinning. Well, I noticed that he did one thing that I didn’t: when he let go he gave a peculiar jerk to his body. Of course, I’ve known about it – they call it ‘putting the devil into the swing’ – but somehow I never could manage it right. But to-day I saw how it was done – it’s in the way you manage your feet – and I yelled: ‘I see, I see! Let me have it!’ At first I couldn’t do it at all. When I tried to bring my right foot round after the third swing I forgot to let go at the right moment. But the next time I did it, and threw a hundred and forty-two. Then Remsen swung again and I watched. And the next time I piled two feet six inches on to it; and the next throw was a hundred and forty-six and a fraction. I’d be throwing yet if Remsen hadn’t taken the hammer away and sent me home.” Dave laughed happily. “You wait until to-morrow, Wayne. Why, now that I’ve learned that little trick I bet I can beat Hardy by two feet!”

“Well, I’m awfully glad,” said Wayne, “and I hope you will. Does Don know?”

“No; he and Beck went off together just before.”

“Let’s go up to the room; perhaps he’s there.”

They had finished their dressing by this time, and they piled upstairs and across the green to Bradley. Don was sitting at the table with a litter of papers before him, all the gas burning, and the afternoon twilight streaming in through the windows.

“Well, what – ” began Wayne.

“Figuring our chances, my boy,” answered Don, rumpling his hair with nervous fingers.

“How are they?” asked Dave eagerly.

“Slim, mighty slim. I can’t see anything but defeat and a second place on the ticket.”

“Let me see.” Dave took up a sheet of foolscap and cast his eyes over it.

“Read it out,” said Wayne.

“Well, let’s see; here we are: Hillton, 4 firsts, 5 seconds, 1 third, total 36 points; St. Eustace, 6 firsts, 5 seconds, 1 third, total 46 points; others, 2 firsts, 2 seconds, 9 thirds, total 26 points. You seem to be fond of 6’s, Don.”

“What counts what?” asked Wayne.

“First counts 5, second 3, third 1. There are twelve events and 108 points,” answered Don. “I’ve given Hillton everything she can win, and one first that is doubtful. Of course, St. Eustace may be stronger or weaker than I think. But, pshaw! the whole thing’s just guess work; we may not score 20 points, or we may possibly get 40; you can never tell. But Beck wanted a guess at it.”

“Well, I’ll tell you where you can get five points more,” said Dave. “You’ve credited us with second place in the hammer throw and St. Eustace with first. You can give us first and second both.”

“How’s that?” asked Don.

“Why, I’ve just thrown over one hundred and forty-six feet, and I can better it by two more in a couple of days.” And Dave retold his story. Don bit the end of his pencil thoughtfully; then he referred to a sheet of figures before him.

“I guess you’re right, Dave. By Jove, I am glad! Trowbridge, of Northern Collegiate, threw one hundred and forty-eight feet five inches last year; Sumner, of St. Eustace, one hundred and forty-seven even. If you can throw two feet better than you did to-day, Dave, we’ll stand a chance to beat St. Eustace, at least. Give me that list. There, that makes it – why, it makes St. Eustace and us each forty-one points!”

“Well, that’s more than a fighting chance.”

“Yes. But what’s the good of figuring on track meetings? Any one of those other five schools might upset this whole table of figures.”

“Yes, I suppose so. But let’s hope for the best; it doesn’t cost any more,” answered Dave cheerfully. Don bundled away his papers, and, with the result of his labors in hand, went out with Dave on his way to Professor Beck’s room. Left to himself, Wayne got his books together, drew a half-finished thesis toward him, and started to work. Presently he stopped and knit his brows. Then he chewed the end of his pen as an aid to memory, and at length went to the bookcase and turned over several volumes, apparently without finding the information he desired. At that moment a knock sounded and Carl Gray entered.

“Hello!” cried Wayne. “Say, Gray, when did the insurrection of Cylon take place?”

“Oh, about a couple of thousand years ago, I guess.”

“But what year was it?”

“Well, let me see; 357 B. C., wasn’t it? No; that was the war of the Athenian league. I guess I don’t know, Gordon.”

“Shucks! I’ll have to go over to the library.”

“Well, wait a minute and I’ll go with you. I brought these up.” He took a package from his pocket and laid it on the table; Wayne picked it up, and undoing the paper covering revealed a pair of new cork grips.

“They’re for you,” said Gray hurriedly. “I hope you’ll use them when you win the mile at the interscholastic meet. They’re not very well made; I had to use big stoppers, and they were sort of coarse grained.”

“Why, they’re simply immense,” said Wayne. He took one in each hand and gripped his fingers about them. “I’m awfully much obliged. And of course I’ll use ’em, whether I win or lose, Gray. But how in the world could you make ’em?”

“Oh, you just cut the cork out in sections and glue them over a piece of wood, you know. Then you shape it with a sharp knife and sort of polish it off with fine sandpaper or emery. It’s easy enough, and I’m glad you like them.”

“You bet I do! They’re fine! Thanks, awfully.”

“Gordon, I wish you weren’t so full of thanks; you tire me to death!” said Gray, trying to mimic Wayne’s manner. Wayne grinned.

“Now we’re even. Come over to the library with me.”

“No,” said Gray, as they went downstairs, “we’re not even. And we sha’n’t be for a long time. And that reminds me.” He pulled a coin out of his pocket and handed it to Wayne. “I sha’n’t be here a week from Saturday, you know; we go to Marshall to play St. Eustace.”

“That’s the last of them, isn’t it?” asked Wayne as he dropped the dollar into his pocket.

“Yes, that’s the last. And thank you ever so much, Gordon. Did I tell you last week that I’d been sending a little money home to my mother ever since I got those first golf balls to fix? Yes, and I know she’s tickled about it. You wouldn’t think that a fellow could make money in school, would you?”

“Some fellows could, and some couldn’t,” answered Wayne. “Do you get any balls to mend nowadays?”

“Yes, quite often; and a good many clubs. I’ve got so I can put a new shaft on to a head in fine style.”

“But you must have turned your room into a regular carpenter shop,” laughed the other.

“No; I use a corner of the carriage room in the stable. Mr. Vance doesn’t charge me anything for it; he’s awfully kind. You might come over and see my ‘repair shop’ some day.”

“I will, and I’ll bring a club of Don’s that has the leather hanging by the skin of its teeth; it’s a disgrace to the study and ought to be fixed.”

They had reached the library, and Wayne went to the shelves and began a hunt.

“Find one of those epitome things,” suggested Gray.

“Where are they? Oh, I see.” He laid his hand on a volume, but as he did so his eyes encountered the title of the one next it. “Ploetz’s Epitome of Universal History,” he read. “Who was it spoke of that once?” He took the book down and withdrew to the window. As he did so the volume opened apparently of its own accord at the three hundred and fifty-second page.

“Well, I’ll be switched!” cried Wayne.

“What’s up?” asked his companion, coming toward him.

“Why – er – nothing at all. I guess I’ll take this with me.”

Together they passed out, and parted at the corner of the gymnasium. Wayne hurried on to Turner Hall and sprang up two flights of stairs.

“I hope Benson’s in,” he said to himself as he knocked lustily at the door of No. 36. He was, and in a moment Wayne was crossing the study toward where the occupant sat by the open window reading something which looked but little like a text-book.

“Hello, Gordon!” cried Benson. “Glad to see you; sit down and be happy.” For reply Wayne opened the library book and laid it face up on the window seat.

“What’s – ” began Benson; then he stopped with a gasp. On the open pages rested a new two-dollar bill, folded once. “Did you find it there?” he asked in bewilderment. Wayne nodded.

“Well!” Benson took the bill and felt of it as though doubting its genuineness. “I must have slipped it in there to mark my place when Gray came in that day!”

“You must have,” answered Wayne dryly. Benson flushed and looked worried.

“By Jove, Gordon, I’m awfully sorry! Such a stupid thing to do! I remember now that I took the book back that evening just before supper, and I suppose I didn’t open it once. Do you think I ought to apologize to Gray?”

“No, he doesn’t know but that you found it long ago; you know I told him you had. No, there’s nothing to do but grab the money and put it somewhere where it won’t get lost. You see, Benson, I don’t want to be accused of taking it away with me,” he added unkindly.

“Oh, I say, Gordon, let up!”

“All right,” laughed Wayne, “we’ll forget it. I’ll take the book with me. And, by the way, if you feel that you’d like to make up to Gray for – for suspecting him, you know, why, bust a golf club or two and let him mend them.”

On the stairs of Bradley Wayne encountered Paddy, who threw his arms about him and hugged him ecstatically.

“Hurrah! He’s gone! He’s went! He’s departed!”

“Who?” gasped Wayne.

“Gardiner, the great, good, and only Gardiner! He took the 2.30 for home, and now I can get some peace and quiet. Honest Injun, Wayne, if he had stayed another week I should have been a gibbering idiot and gone around cutting people’s throats with a long, keen blade!”

“Oh, dry up,” laughed Wayne. “Have you been upstairs? Is Don there?”

“I have. He is not. Come, let us go to the village and celebrate at Caper’s on soda water. Let us speed the parting guest. Gardiner’s all right, Wayne, but, ah, he’s terrible onaisy.”

“I don’t believe I’m supposed to drink soda water, Paddy, but I’ll go and watch you. Have you seen Dave lately?”

“No, what’s he been up to?”

“He’s been breaking his own record with the hammer.”

When Paddy heard the facts he was delighted, and proved it by dancing from side to side of the dusty roadway until out of breath.

“Old Dave will be pleased to death,” he panted. “He’s been awfully in the dumps since the handicaps. My, but I do hope he’ll win out at the interscholastic!”

And then they went on to the village and sought out the tiny shop where the enticing sign “Ice Cream Soda” flanked the doorway. And Paddy drank one of chocolate flavor in honor of Gardiner’s departure and one of strawberry in celebration of Dave’s success.

The following Wednesday afternoon Wayne went over the mile, while Professor Beck and Don and a little group of fellows looked on and cheered his progress after each lap. He put his whole mind and energy into the task, and never altered the hard pace he had set himself up to the last half of the last quarter, despite the warnings of Don and the professor, who both timed him.

“He’s going too fast, I’m afraid,” said Don sorrowfully.

“I fear so,” answered the professor. “But maybe he knows what he can do; he’s improved wonderfully since the handicaps.”

When the last lap began Wayne let himself out just a trifle until at the end of the back stretch the little group was staring in surprise from the watches to the runner.

“He’s done it easily,” cried Don. “And look! Hanged if he isn’t spurting!”

Down the stretch came Wayne, his head back, his arms at his side, and running as though he was being paced by a steam engine. Over the line he dashed and the two watches stopped.

“Five minutes eight and a fifth seconds!” cried Don.

“Five minutes eight and a fifth seconds!” echoed the professor. The crowd clapped as Wayne trotted back, panting and flushed but evidently unwearied; and Don patted him joyfully on the shoulder.

“Eight and a fifth, Wayne!” he cried. Wayne looked for confirmation to the professor, who nodded as he dropped his watch back into his pocket.

“That will do for to-day, Gordon. Report at training table in the morning,” he said.

Nine days later the track team, together with Professor Beck and two graduate coaches, assembled after supper in the gymnasium, were cheered individually and collectively by their schoolmates, and were conveyed to the station, where they embarked on the Pacific Express for the up-State city which was on the morrow to be the scene of the interscholastic meeting.

And with them went the hopes of Hillton.