Buch lesen: «For the Honor of the School: A Story of School Life and Interscholastic Sport»

TO THAT SCHOOL,

WHEREVER IT MAY BE,

WHOSE ATHLETICS ARE PUREST,

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED

CHAPTER I
THE CROSS-COUNTRY RACE

“This way, Hillton!”

In response ten boys dressed in white shirts bearing the crimson H, white running pants, and spiked shoes disentangled themselves from the crowd about the dressing-room door and assembled at the corner of the grand stand. The youth who had uttered the command was the captain of the Hillton Academy Cross-country Team, and, with the runners clustered close about him, he gave his last instructions before the race in low and earnest tones:

“Fellows, we must win this, you know. It’s going to be hard work; House and Beaming, of St. Eustace, are difficult men to beat, but I think we can do it. Northrop and I will try to attend to them. The rest of you must try your best for the next places. I don’t believe there is a dangerous runner in Shrewsburg’s team; at all events, there aren’t four. If they get less than four in ahead of us it won’t matter. Save yourselves for the last three quarters of a mile, and don’t try to leap the ‘combination jump’ or the ‘Liverpool’; get over by the side railings or run up the braces, as you’ve done in practice. It’s not style over the obstacles that’s going to win this race, but good hard running and lots of wind at the end. Keep your strength till you need it most. Don’t try to get ahead at the start; let the other fellow make the pace. And right now, while I think of it, do try not to take off too soon at the water jump. Moore, you try to remember about that, will you? And be sure before you start that your shoes are all right; it’s mighty tough work running with a scraped heel, I can tell you. That’s all; only keep yourselves moving, fellows, until the line-up.”

In obedience to the warning, shoes were looked after again and the cotton wool stuffed carefully between them and the ankles to preclude chafing, and the boys limbered up their legs and kept the blood circulating by stepping gingerly about the track on their toes – for all the world like a band of Indians performing a war dance. Presently the dressing-room door was flung open and twenty other boys trotted out and followed the example of the Hillton team. Of the twenty, ten bore on their sleeveless shirts the blue monogram of St. Eustace and ten the great green S of Shrewsburg High School. The distance judges had already taken themselves off to their posts of duty about the course, and the other officials were gathered in consultation at the starting line.

It was a bleak and cheerless Saturday afternoon. Overhead leaden clouds hung low, and the fluttering red flags that marked the course of the coming contest alone lent color to the gray November landscape.

“Smells like snow, Wayne,” said the Hillton captain to a runner who stood – or rather danced – beside him. “I hope it won’t. The ground’s slippery enough now.”

“Rather wish it would, myself,” was the reply. “If I could get decently stuck in a snow bank I’d like it a heap better than finishing last in the race.”

“You won’t do that, you know. Lots of those Shrewsburg chaps are slow men. I wish I was as certain that we’d win the race as I am that you’ll finish well.”

“Well, I’ll do my best, Don, but you mustn’t expect too much,” said the other boy anxiously. “I wouldn’t have gone into it if you hadn’t said that it didn’t much matter whether I came in first or last.”

“And it doesn’t; but I am certain, Wayne, that if you try you can finish well up in the bunch. I think you’ve got the making of a good runner. Of course, three weeks of training – that is, the kind of training you’ve done” – the other lad grinned – “doesn’t amount to a great deal when it comes to a four-mile race. After the first round pick some St. Eustace fellow and stick to him; you’ll be surprised to find how much better it goes if some one is making pace for you. By Jove! I do hope we can win to-day! This is your first term, Wayne, and of course you don’t know how the fellows feel about it; but I tell you we’d rather down St. Eustace than – than eat!”

“They won last year, didn’t they?”

“St. Eustace? Yes, that chap Beaming over there, the little chap that looks like a fox terrier, came in first and won the individual championship. Then House finished next about three yards behind, and I got in ten yards or so back of House. Then they got two more men in before another Hillton runner was in sight. Oh, it was a regular walk-over, Wayne. Come on, they’re ready.”

And Donald Cunningham and Wayne Gordon hurried to the starting line. The former was a tall, lithe youth with not an ounce of superfluous flesh over the firm muscles. The pink hue of his bare arms and legs told of perfect physical condition and his thin face showed energy and resolution. His dark eyes – rather thoughtful eyes they were – had a habit of looking very straight at you as he spoke, and lent an expression of serious dignity to the countenance.

His companion was in appearance and temperament a notable contrast. While scarcely an inch shorter than the captain of the Cross-country Team, Wayne Gordon, by reason of much unnecessary flesh, appeared lower in stature, and lacked the fitness that comes of rigorous training. His muscles, despite some spasmodic practice for the day’s event, were still soft. While Donald’s face showed energy, Wayne’s told of careless good humor and, especially about the lower part, of pertinacity which might under certain conditions develop into stubbornness. The eyes were brown, frank, and honest, and at this moment were gazing before him in smiling tensity.

The starter had cocked his pistol and the referee was warning the runners as to the penalty for starting before the signal. The onlookers, fully two hundred of them in all, were assembled along both sides of the cinder track, and were adding their voices to the referee’s, to the total overwhelming of the latter. The runners were formed in two lines across the track, their shoe spikes griping the earth and their bodies poised forward.

“Has every one got his number?” asked the referee. “Remember, the judges can’t register you if they don’t see your numbers.”

Several fluttering papers were repinned to the white shirts and the starter raised his voice.

“Are you ready?” A moment’s silence ensued.

Bang! The pistol cracked sharply and the runners swept in a bunch around the corner of the cinder track, gained the turf, and headed toward where the red flags indicated the first obstacle.

Of these obstacles the course held six, as follows: A “Liverpool,” a “combination,” two hedge jumps, a bank jump, and a water jump. The first consisted of a four-foot dry ditch in front of a five-foot rail fence, followed, in turn, by a broad and high hedge. The “combination” consisted of a low bank surmounted by a two-foot hedge and followed by a four-foot dry ditch. The hedge jumps differed only in height, the first being three feet and the second three feet six inches. The bank jump was four feet high. All these were comparatively easy of surmountal in comparison with the water jump. The hedges and bank might be scrambled over, the “combination” could be fallen over – one didn’t mind a few bruises – and the “Liverpool” could be climbed over or surmounted by means of the fences on either side or the stays which held up the rails. But the water jump defied every method save a long, clean jump. An eighteen-inch hedge was constructed on the bank of a brook that came under the railway track and crossed the golf course to the lake. The brook was here eight feet broad and several feet deep in the middle, and constituted a very pretty obstacle in the way of a youth tired out by a one- or two-mile run and the conquest of all the lesser obstacles. Only on the last round of the course was the water jump omitted.

The distance to be run was four miles, or three times around the course. Starting at the grand stand on the campus the red flags guided the runners across the end of the golf links near Home Hole, then bore away south along the bank of the Hudson River, crossing the brook over the little rustic bridge, and taking the railroad track at a right angle between Railroad Bunker and Academy Hole. With a short turn the course then swept back across the railway again to the water jump, High and Track Bunkers, the campus, the grand stand, and the yelling groups of spectators.

The plan of the course here reproduced was made by Donald Cunningham for the use of the Cross-country Team, and will, perhaps, aid the reader to a better understanding of what follows. Paddy cast aspersions on this effort, but Don was always very proud of it.

Each competing school entered a team of ten boys. Points were apportioned according to the position of the runners at the finish: thus, the first one completing the three rounds of the course scored one; the second, two; the third, three; and so on down to the last, only the leading four in each team being considered. Besides a prize for the winning team, a silver cup, the first runner in was awarded the individual trophy, a bronze medal. Cross-country running requires speed, strength, endurance, and pluck – especially pluck. The course presents an infinite variety of surface: slippery turf, loose gravel, mud, and sometimes sand in which the feet sink to the ankles. Unlike the ordinary running surface, the cross-country course delights in inequality: a level width of turf is followed by a sharp rise; a stretch of muddy road by a gully whose steep sides require the utmost exertion from the panting runner.

The course at Hillton was no exception; in fact, it was more than usually severe. Besides the artificial obstacles – such as the hedges, the bank, and the water jump – the railroad track, fenced on either side, and three golf bunkers added their terrors to the race. To-day the ground, which had been frozen hard the week before, was soft and treacherous from the noonday thaw, and even spiked shoes found slow and difficult going.

Six hundred yards from the start the field of runners had spread out into three divisions. Fifty yards ahead House and Beaming, the two St. Eustace cracks, led Donald Cunningham by a stride, while close upon their heels ran Moore, of Hillton, and two Shrewsburg boys. Back of them came a little group of a dozen whose shirts showed the crimson H, the blue monogram, and the green S in about equal proportions. Farther to the rear the rest of the thirty struggled and straggled along the course, already practically out of the race so far as their effect on the final score was concerned. At the “Liverpool” the St. Eustace leaders took the ditch at a bound, gained the top of the fence, balanced themselves a second, and cleared the hedge. The Hillton captain and Moore used other tactics. Without lessening his speed each planted one spiked toe on a brace that helped to support the fence, gained the top bar in two strides, and cleared the hedge. The Shrewsburg runners tried neither of these styles, but climbed the fence, squirmed across the hedge, and dropped helter-skelter to the ground, to find themselves farther behind the four leaders. As each runner surmounted the “Liverpool” the distance judges stationed there registered his number.

From the grand stand every foot of the far-stretching course was plainly in sight, and now the first men looked like white specks as they took the turn, scrambled over the second hedge jump, and headed toward home. Many of the watchers deserted the finish line and clustered about the water jump, loudly expressing the hope that some one would “take a bath.” They climbed on to the fences that led up to the obstacle and waited impatiently for the runners to appear. Suddenly two white-clad figures were for a moment seen sharply against the gray of the hills as they took the railroad track in a bound; then they were climbing the fence and speeding toward the watchers. Simultaneously three others came into view, followed a moment later by a fourth.

“Cunningham’s closed up!” cried the Hillton supporters joyfully. “House has dropped back!”

The two captains of the rival teams bore down on the jump, their faces flushed with exertion, but their legs moving gracefully as they put yard after yard behind them. Neither Beaming nor Cunningham slowed down perceptibly at the hedge; each found the take-off at the same moment and swept cleanly over the water side by side amid the plaudits of the spectators. House, Moore, and a Shrewsburg lad followed in the next minute, gained their applause, and went on to the grand stand a dozen yards behind the leaders. A second Shrewsburg runner, plainly in distress, lessened his pace at the water jump, took off too soon, and landed knee-deep on the muddy margin of the brook. But he was out in a moment and gained a hearty cheer by the spirited spurt he made after the others.

Then the watchers had a moment of waiting ere the next group of runners reached them. They came pouring over the railroad track and fence by ones and twos, helter-skelter, with a St. Eustace man a bare yard to the good and a Hillton runner, Northrop, trying hard to reach him. Over the hedge and water they went – the St. Eustace man, Northrop, a Shrewsburg runner, another wearer of the blue monogram, and another Shrewsburg boy – all clearing the difficult jump in good style save the latter, who plumped squarely into the middle of the brook, and so delighted the watching lads that many of them fell from the fences in sheer joy. Wayne Gordon came next and received a shower of spray in his face as he cleared the brook and sped onward. A St. Eustace boy followed the example of the unfortunate Shrewsburg chap, and when the rest of the bunch had passed the two crawled out and took up the running once more with disgusted looks and spiritless gait.

By this time the leaders had reached a point across the field and halfway around the second lap. Donald Cunningham and Beaming, of St. Eustace, still fought for first place, and House had left his Shrewsburg rival behind and was close upon their heels, Moore, of Hillton, a few paces off. Shrewsburg seemed out of the race. Her first two men were now but a yard ahead of the leaders in the second group, one still running easily and well, the other laboring at every stride. Northrop managed to come up to the third St. Eustace runner at the “combination jump,” and by superior work over the obstacle drew several yards ahead. Wayne Gordon moved up to the front rank of the followers, and the race momentarily gained in interest to the spectators.

Again the leaders made the turn at the far end of the course and headed back toward the water jump, overtaking several of the slower runners who were still struggling on their first round. Cunningham, Beaming, and House were practically side by side as they approached the jump, and the cheers from the onlookers increased in volume. Beaming spurted and took the leap in exhibition style, and Cunningham and House took off almost ere he had set foot to earth. The latter landed well and sped on, but the former, to the consternation of the Hillton throng, while he cleared the water, stumbled on the bank and dropped to his knees. In an instant he had gained his feet and taken up the race again, but his first stride proved to the dismayed supporters of the crimson that he was out of the running. One – two – three steps he took; then he swerved to the side of the course, and would have fallen but for the ready arms that were stretched toward him. He struggled from them.

“Let go, fellows,” he panted. “I’m all right; just – turned my ankle.”

The boys drew back and he started on, limping woefully. A dozen yards he traversed ere he gave up and threw himself on the turf. A lad in disreputable football attire was the first to reach him.

“What’s the matter, Don? Are you hurt?” he cried anxiously.

There was no answer, and he leaned down and drew a bare arm from before a face whereon the tears were trickling.

“Keep the fellows away, Paddy,” whispered Don huskily. “I’ll – be all right – in a minute. I – I – my ankle’s sprained, I guess; I can’t run – a step; and – and, oh, Paddy, we’ve lost the race!”

CHAPTER II
WHAT A LAUGH DID

A few minutes later Don was sitting in a corner of the grand stand, smothered in a pile of blankets and with his injured ankle bound in wet bandages. Beside him were two boys of about his own age, one of whom, the lad whom he had addressed as Paddy, was solicitously slopping cold water from a tin can over his ankle at frequent intervals. Nothing serious, Professor Beck had decided, only a strained tendon; and so Don had been helped to his present position, from where he could watch the race run out. He looked pale and woe-begone; but he managed to smile now and then in answer to Paddy’s sallies.

“Paddy” Breen – his real name was Charles – had been given his nickname two years before, when he was a little red-headed junior too small to resent it had he been so inclined. Paddy’s forbears had been Irish a generation or two back, and although there was little about the boy to suggest the fact, barring his red hair and gray eyes and sunny nature, the name was somehow distinctly appropriate, and it had stuck to him through his junior and lower middle years and promised to stick forever. Paddy played center on the first eleven, a position for which his broad shoulders and hips and great strength eminently fitted him. To-day he was attired in a faded and torn red sweater, a pair of equally disreputable moleskin trousers, two red and black striped stockings whose appearance told a story of many battles, a pair of badly scuffed tan shoes, and a golf cap of such bold and striking tones of brown, green, and scarlet as to stamp it at once as brand-new.

The lad who sat on the other side of Don was of even more generous build than Paddy Breen. Dave Merton’s shoulders were broad and set well back, giving him a look of great power. He was, perhaps, the least bit overgrown for his seventeen years, for he topped Paddy by an inch and Don by two. But he looked very healthy and happy, and was as good-natured a fellow as any at the Academy. His hair was black and his eyes dark, giving him a more somber coloring than his bosom companion, Paddy, but, like the latter, he preferred smiling to frowning. Dave had two great ambitions in life at present – namely, to throw the hammer farther than any other Hilltonian and to excel at study. The latter seemed quite within the range of possibility, but as for Dave’s hammer throwing it was a school joke at which even Dave could laugh. Paddy Breen was a brilliant pupil; Dave Merton a hard-working one. Paddy was an excellent football player; Dave an indifferent performer with the weights. Both were leaders in their classes – Dave was a senior – and popular throughout the school. Their friendship was as much a joke as Dave’s hammer throwing and the two were inseparable.

“Beaten?” Paddy was saying scornfully. “Never, me boy. Sure ’tis only beginning we are; just wait till we git our breath!” Paddy, as though to lend indorsement to his nickname, at times dropped into a brogue acquired with great labor from such classics as Charles O’Malley and Tom Burke.

“I only wish we had begun earlier in the race, Paddy,” answered Don hopelessly. “Who is ahead in the bunch there, Dave – can you make out?”

The leaders, House and Beaming, were now far up the course and the next group of runners were some distance behind. Farther back of them other contestants straggled. Two runners were out of the race. A Shrewsburg boy had given up on the second round and was philosophically watching the contest from the top of a distant bank, and a Hillton fellow, Turner, had gone to the dressing room suffering with an attack of cramp. In answer to Don’s question Dave studied the distant runners for a space in silence.

“Well, that’s Northrop in the lead all right, Don, and the next two fellows are St. Eustace men. Then Moore and a Shrewsburg chap, and another St. Eustace man, and – and one of our team – I can’t make out who.” Dave looked frowningly across the field.

“Which one?” asked Paddy. “The fellow with the long legs just taking the hedge? Why, man, that’s Wayne, of course; no mistaking him.”

“So it is,” answered Don. “He’s doing well. It would be queer if he managed to keep his present place and got in third, wouldn’t it?”

“Well, he won’t,” said Dave, “for Jones has passed him. Good old Jones! Just look at him spurt!”

“Those two men just behind Northrop are Keller and Gould, of St. Eustace,” said Don. “Well, I guess we’re dished. House and Beaming are sure of first and second place; Northrop ought to get third; then either Gould or Keller is pretty certain to finish ahead of Moore – perhaps both will; that would make the score something like twelve to twenty-four, supposing we got three men in after Keller and Gould.”

“There’s a good half mile to cover yet, my lad,” said Paddy cheerfully. “There’s lots may happen in that distance. Look there; those fellows are changing all around. And, by Jove, fellows, look at Beaming!”

Beaming was dropping back and House was alone at the turn of the course. And some one – it seemed as though it must be Northrop, of Hillton – was closing up the long gap between the leaders and the next group at a fabulous pace. And even as the three boys on the grand stand strained their sight a second runner left the group as though it were standing still and shot after Northrop – if it was Northrop. The runners were too far off to allow of the watchers being certain as to their identity, but a look of hope crept into Don’s face. There seemed nothing to do save wait until the runners appeared at the railroad a third of a mile away, until Paddy spied a pair of field glasses in the hands of a boy in the throng below and unceremoniously gained possession of them. He passed them to Don, and the latter, leaning for support on Dave and Paddy, swept the course with them.

“Northrop’s ahead of Beaming!” he cried. “And Jones is almost up to him! House is leading by forty yards or more! A Shrewsburg fellow is running even with Keller and Gould! Paddy, we’ve still got a show!”

“Where’s Wayne?” asked Dave.

“And Jones?” asked Paddy.

“Wayne? I – can’t – see him. Hold on; yes, there he is! He’s at the back of the bunch; a Shrewsburg fellow’s passing him hand over fist. Jones is gaining, Paddy; he’s creeping up. There they go over the bank jump. Some fellow’s done up – it’s Keller; Jones has passed him.” Don excitedly turned his glasses toward a point nearer home. “House still leads and is spurting, hang him! Northrop’s fifty yards behind him, and Beaming – no, fellows, it’s Moore! Moore’s in third place!”

“What?” cried Dave. “What’s up with Beaming?”

“Don’t know; he looks tuckered. Hello!”

“What is it, Don? Talk out; don’t be so plaguey slow!”

“A Shrewsburg chap has gained fifth place and looks as though he were going to beat Beaming in the next twenty yards. What do you think of that? Jones and Wayne are both gaining. By Jove, fellows, we may get it yet! Let’s go down to the finish; help me down, Dave.”

“If only Jones and Wayne can last,” said Paddy, “we could win, couldn’t we? But Wayne – ” Paddy shook his head as they descended from the stand and went toward the finish line. “Do you think he can hold out, Don?”

Don shook his head dubiously.

At that moment Wayne was wondering the same thing. He had surprised himself by staying in the race up to the present moment. He had entered the contest only to oblige Don. “I don’t ask you to hurt yourself,” the latter had explained. “Drop out when you are tired. It will be good practice and will save us from entering with only nine fellows.” So Wayne had laughingly consented. As he had passed runner after runner in the first two rounds of the course he had begun to ask himself what it meant. Don had told him that he had the making of a good long-distance man, but he hadn’t given much heed to the statement; apparently Don was right. After the first mile he had begun to suffer a little, and now, with the race almost over, he would like to have dropped out and spent about ten minutes lying on his back, but it seemed a poor thing to give up so near the end, and so he found himself still pounding away, with his legs very stiff and his breath apparently about to fail him at every effort. He realized that the ground had become softer and more slippery and that snow was falling. Then he crossed the track and struggled on toward the next obstacle, a three-and-a-half-foot hedge.

Wayne hated the hedges. He was too heavy to hurdle them well, and he invariably jumped short and lost precious time getting his feet untangled. Luckily he was done with that nightmare the water jump, since on the last round it was avoided and the course led over the brook by the railroad and thence straight down to the finish. As he approached the hedge Wayne drew himself together for a last effort, and at the take-off put all his strength into the leap. But unfortunately the turf was bare at that spot and his foot slipped as he jumped.

“Thank goodness!” he thought, when he had stopped rolling. “Now I can lie here decently until the whole thing’s over with!”

But his sensation of joyous relief was rudely dispelled. Over the hedge leaped a boy with a blue monogram on his shirt, who, as he caught sight of Wayne’s predicament, grinned broadly. In a trice Wayne had struggled to his feet and had taken up the chase race again, rage in his heart.

“He laughed at me, hang him!” he panted. “I’ll just beat him out if I die for it!”

The St. Eustace boy was several yards ahead already, but Wayne threw back his head and ran desperately. A roar of voices from down the field told him that the first man had finished. He put every ounce of strength into the struggle, thinking nothing of who was winning, only determined to beat the chap who had laughed at him. And as he crossed the railroad the knowledge that he was gaining on the St. Eustace runner brought joy to his heart.

Down at the finish line the air was filled with the cheers of the St. Eustace supporters, who, though few in number, were strong of voice. House had finished first and captured the individual championship and prize. And now, almost side by side, and struggling valiantly for second place, came the two Hillton men, Northrop and Moore, and the wearers of the crimson went wild with joy and shouted until both runners had crossed the line, Northrop in the lead, and had been led away to the dressing room.

Don was busy with pencil and paper now, while Paddy looked over his shoulder and Dave scowled up the course and waited impatiently for the next runner to swing into sight around the corner of the little knoll that hid the railroad track from the finish line. Then two white figures broke into view almost simultaneously.

“A Shrewsburg fellow and a St. Eustace fellow!” cried Dave. “I think the last is Beaming. Yes, it is!”

The runner with the green S won the line a good three yards ahead of the almost breathless Beaming, and a little group of Shrewsburg High School fellows broke into applause. Beaming had to be well-nigh carried from the course, although protesting faintly that he could walk.

Don’s paper now held the following figures:

“Two men each and we’re one figure ahead,” whispered Don. “There’s some one, Dave – three fellows. Who are they?”

“St. Eustace fellow ahead,” answered Dave.

“It’s Gould!” cried a voice from near by, and the supporters of the down-river academy cheered wildly.

“Hurrah!” yelled Paddy. “Erin go bragh! There’s good old Jones! And a Shrewsburg fellow hot after him.”

Don tried to jump, but found he couldn’t because of his strained ankle and contented himself with a hair-raising yell. Then he added a 6 to the St. Eustace score, an 8 to that of Shrewsburg, and a 7 to Hillton’s row of figures. For Gould, Jones, and the Shrewsburg runner crossed the line in the order given amid the cheers of the three rival contingents.

“It’s a tie so far,” shouted Paddy, as he added up the few figures. “St. Eustace has twelve points, Dave, and so have we. By Jove! it all depends on the next man, Don, doesn’t it? Can you see any one, Dave?”

“No one in sight yet. Let’s hope the first will be a Hillton chap, fellows. But even if it isn’t the score’s bound to be close. Wonder what’s become of ‘Old Virginia’?”

That was a nickname that Paddy had bestowed upon Wayne Gordon in allusion to the latter’s native State.

“I’m afraid Wayne’s dropped out of it,” answered Don, with a tremble in his voice, “but still – ”

“St. Eustace wins!”

Half a dozen voices took up the cry as a fleet-footed runner whose breast bore the blue monogram came quickly into sight. The three boys groaned in unison. St. Eustace’s fourth man was speeding toward the finish.

“Done for,” whispered Dave.

“Wait a bit!” cried Paddy. “There’s two of them there. Who’s the second chap?”

Paddy was right. Directly behind the St. Eustace runner sped a second youth, so close that he seemed to be treading upon the former’s heels.

“It’s one of our fellows, Don!” cried Dave.

“I don’t think so. I – oh, why doesn’t he come out so that we can see!”

“I’m afraid it’s another Shrewsburg chump,” said Paddy dolefully. “Oh, hang the luck, anyhow!”

“Wait!” cried Don. “He’s coming out! There – there he comes! He’s trying to pass, and – and – ”

“It’s Wayne!” cried Dave and Paddy in unison.

And Wayne it was. Slowly, doggedly, he drew from his place back of the St. Eustace man and fought his way inch by inch alongside. The cheering spectators saw the wearer of the blue glance swiftly at the Hillton runner and throw back his head. But the boy beside him refused to be thrown off and down the course they came together, their tired limbs keeping time to the frenzied cheers of the throng.

“St. Eustace wins! Keller’s ahead!”

“Hillton’s race! Gordon leads!”

And then, high above the babel of a hundred voices, sounded a mighty shout from Paddy: