CHAPTER XX

CLIFFORD’S NEW HOPE

Almost before some of the crowd knew it had begun, the fifty-yard dash was over. Coddling had won!

“White Wings just flew the coop, and landed the first prize!” whooped a wild Clifford enthusiast, as he jumped up and down in his excitement.

“And we’ve got a few surprises like Coddling up our sleeve, Columbia!” cried a second proud student, who wore the colors of the down-river school.

“He did carry it off, sure as anything!” remarked Lanky, feeling a little discouraged. “And I thought our man, Paul Bird, had a sure thing.”

“Paul entered in the wrong class there,” remarked Frank. “Just wait till you see him run in the hundred-yard race, and the quarter-mile. They’ve got them so scattered that he can rest up good, between each one. Didn’t you notice that while the Clifford fellow went like the wind at first, Paul was cutting down his lead in great shape when they crossed the line?”

“That’s a fact, Frank,” admitted Lanky.

“If that race had been twice as far, Paul would have had him easily beaten. Well, let Clifford roar all she wants, right now; perhaps the poor thing won’t have another chance to whoop it up all day.”

“She generally does get it in the neck, somehow, before the end comes,” admitted Lanky. “There never was such luck, the Clifford boys say. But, all the same, Frank, they are talking loud about what they’re going to do to us in that long run.”

“They’re welcome to say what they please,” the other remarked, calmly. “Talk is cheap, and boasting hurts no one but those who carry it to excess. The proof of the pudding is in the eating thereof. We’ll talk less, and _do_ something, Lanky.”

“That’s the stuff, fellows!” cried a Columbia boy who happened to be passing, and caught the last few words of what Frank said.

“There comes the new Clifford runner, who’s going to make us look like thirty cents, they say. What’s his name, Frank; did you notice it on the program?” Lanky asked.

“Larry Parker,” Frank replied; “and I rather think he’s coming right over now to take a look at the three Columbia fellows who will be against him in that race. Of course he’s heard a heap about your doings on Saturday; and he means to size you up. We’ll have to be agreeable to him, remember, Lanky. This is our ground, and to-day Clifford and Bellport are our guests.”

“Sure thing,” muttered the tall lad, eyeing the approaching runner; who had a large “C” on his sleeveless shirt to indicate to which school he belonged, just as if the colors he sported would not do that.

Evidently Larry Parker was somewhat of a breezy sort, for he came up to the two Columbia boys, whom he had never met before, and extended his hand.

“Hello! fellows!” he exclaimed. “I’m told that this is Frank Allen, and Lanky Wallace, two of Columbia’s star long-distance runners. And as I’m entered in that little jaunt myself this afternoon, with a few foolish Clifford boys thinking I’ve got a fighting chance to win, thought I’d like to know you a little, before I see the last of you over my shoulder.”

There was a cool assurance about the fellow that impressed Frank against him. It was not that he felt the utmost confidence in himself, for that is no crime; but he acted as though treating the others with disdain.

Frank did not like the face he saw. There was a sly, crafty expression on it, he believed. To his mind, then, this new Clifford hope, Larry Parker, would not hesitate about descending to trickery, if by means of it he might increase his chances for winning his race. The means did not count in such a fellow’s mind, only what lay at the end. And in this case the handsome prize offered was a gold watch, surely worth exerting one’s very best powers in the hope of winning.

Another thing Frank noticed, for he was quick to discover little items that might stand for a great deal.

“Um! a cigarette smoker, eh?” was what he said to himself, as he saw that the first and second fingers of the other’s hand were stained yellow; and Frank knew just what that meant. “Chances are, that if he’s a good runner now, he won’t be a year from to-day. And I’d like to wager a good deal that he falls down in the last part of this ten-mile race. So this is the chap who never turns a hair after he’s clipped off his cool ten, is it? I guess he won’t win against a clean fellow like Lanky, with no bad habits to weaken him for the strain.”

Frank knew that Larry Parker had only come across from the Clifford benches to size them up at close quarters. He was doubtless trying to discover some signs of weakness about them. Besides, it might pay him to know two of the contestants before the race was called.

He stood there, and chatted for a little while, laughing at some of the accidents that accompanied the next few events. One fellow from Bellport, who tried to beat Jack Comfort’s throw of the weight, forgot to let go; and was whirled around like a teetotum, or a dancing dervish as seen over in Northern Africa. They took him off the field with a dislocated shoulder, so that he needed the attention of a doctor.

Frank did not like the way Larry Parker seemed to enjoy a thing like this. On his part he felt genuinely sorry for the poor chap; but the Clifford newcomer looked on it as extremely funny.

Watching his hands after this, Frank noticed that they seemed to tremble constantly, which was a rather strange thing in a mere lad.

“That’s what they say excessive cigarette smoking will do for a fellow, Lanky,” he managed to whisper in the ear of his chum a little later on; for be it told, Lanky at several times had been known to indulge in a smoke of the “coffin nail,” as he scoffingly called it. “Watch his hands, and see them flutter. It acts on his heart. If he keeps it up, a year from now he’ll never be able to run at all.”

Lanky gave a grunt, and turned a little red; but immediately looked away. It was apparently more satisfactory to turn his eyes toward that corner of the stand where a certain little rosy-cheeked girl sat, waving her Columbia flag every time he looked that way. And doubtless the sight of Dora Baxter inspired Lanky with more and more determination to do himself proud on this day.

Presently the wiry-looking Clifford athlete betook himself off, apparently satisfied with his view of his two rivals at close quarters.

“What do you think of him, Frank?” asked Lanky. “Is he the great wonder they say, and do we need to fear him?”

“He’s got all the points of a good runner in his make-up,” replied Frank. “To tell the truth, he makes me think of some of the Indian long-distance runners whose pictures I’ve got at home--Longboat in particular. Yes, if that fellow let tobacco alone, and paid attention to himself, I rather think he’d look at the bunch of us over his shoulder as he led the procession all along the ten miles.”

“But he does use cigarettes; I saw his stained fingers,” Lanky went on; “and do you expect that is going to hurt his chances?”

“I don’t doubt it any more than I doubt my eyes when I see you in front of me,” Frank went on, earnestly. “And another thing, Lanky, I must say I don’t admire his face very much.”

“Why, what’s the matter with it, Frank? Now, all things considered, I was sayin’ to myself that he’s a heap handsomer than Lanky Wallace ever can be.”

“Oh! well, we’re not talking about good looks now, you know,” laughed Frank. “Anybody could take just one glance at your face, and know that he’d be able to trust you to the limit. But, Lanky, there was something that I think bordered on treachery and cunning in his shifty eyes, and the sneer on his face.”

“Whew! that’s layin’ it on pretty thick, Frank!”

“I wouldn’t think of saying it to a living soul, only you; and I do it now because I honestly believe that fellow would be mean enough to do something to disable you, if he saw that you were going to pass him, and no one seemed to be looking. He would stick out his foot, and trip you, hoping you’d strain an ankle in the tumble, and have to give up.”

“Great governor! you don’t say so, Frank!” ejaculated Lanky; “but he might know I’d tell it on him after I did limp in!”

“And he’d claim that it was entirely unintentional on his part--that he slipped, and came near falling himself, when he tripped you. All I want to remark is this, Lanky; keep your eye on him, and look out for a trick, if you do start to go ahead of him. That fellow believes in the rule or ruin policy, if ever it was written on a boy’s face. But see, here comes the sack race; it ought to be funny enough to make us forget all our troubles.”

The crowd was in a mood for something comical; and if sack races are properly conducted, they afford plenty of fun; except for some of the unfortunate participants who in falling manage to skin their noses.

As the sacks had been secured from a regular sporting goods house in the city they were made substantially, and doubly reinforced at the bottom. Being tied around the necks of the contestants there was no possible way in which they could make use of their arms in order to block a stumble, or save themselves in the event of a fall.

At the signal they all started hopping or wriggling along in such manner as each bagged contestant thought would best advance his interests. And soon the vast crowd was shrieking with laughter to see the comical sight, as each lad made the most desperate efforts to get ahead.

“Almost down to the last event, Lanky,” said Bones Shadduck, an hour later, crossing over to where a number of the Columbia boys stood clustered around Frank and the tall boy.

“If Bellport takes this pole vault, as I’m afraid she will,” declared Buster Billings, dejectedly, “the score will stand a tie between Columbia and Bellport, with seven wins apiece, and two for Clifford. That means you’ve just _got_ to come in ahead of the Bellport runners, Lanky, Frank or Bones. Oh! please get wings on your feet, and don’t let those Bellport crowds go through Columbia this afternoon, shouting and howling like crazy Indians, because they’ve licked us at last!”

“Well, here goes the pole vaulting contest,” remarked another Columbia student; “and Captain Lee looks fit to jump over a two-story house. He’s bound to beat our man, Ginger Harper, hand over fist.”

His words turned out to be the truth, for Cuthbert Lee easily beat the best record that either of his contestants could hang up. This made the excitement intense; for as the nine long-distance runners came slowly to the scratch, everybody realized that the score was tied between Bellport and Columbia, just as it used to be in a tight baseball game. And if one of their entries won this last match, the long run, it would mean victory for his school!

And knowing this, the runners themselves were nerved to do their level best when they drew up in a line, and began to get ready to jump at the crack of the pistol.