An Exciting Tale of College Athletics
BILLY MARSHALL came off the track and walked weakly toward the dressing-room. At every step his toes, aching from the backward strain of his spiked shoes, flinched from touching the ground. His knees wobbled and bent under him as if they were rubber. He sat down on the steps that led to the shower-baths in the basement and with trembling fingers fumbled at the strings of his running-shoes. When he straightened up with them in his hand, his overworked lungs expanded painfully. His head roared as if it were full of escaping steam.
Inside the half-dark bathroom, he sank upon the nearest bench and began stripping off his running-kit. Dully he heard a voice say:
"What did you make it in, Bill?"
"Dunno!"
He wanted to lie down on the wooden bench, but he knew that would stiffen him up, so he made his way to the shower-bath and stepped under its cold flood. The icy water jolted his weary brain and muscles into shuddering activity. When his teeth began to chatter themselves loose, he dodged out and hurried to the rubbing-table, where "Smoked" Joe, who from time immemorial had kept the 'Varsity's men in shape, pounded and slapped and kneaded him.
While Bill was dressing, the 'Varsity coach came in, and leaning over him, said: "Marshall, that mile of yours was two seconds slow. If we are going to win this meeting, you must take second place. Halloran and Dean are both beating your time every day, to leave out of consideration some dark horse who may jump in and win. Remember, the 'Varsity needs your three points, and if you don't show 'yellow' you can win them. Go to bed early tonight, and don't worry. That's all."
Bill finished dressing and left the stuffy room for the cool air of the spring evening. The setting sun tinted everything with long, slanting, ruddy beams. The trees were green with new leafage, and the turf was damp and springy underfoot from a thunder-shower of early afternoon.
One phrase of the coach's rankled in Marshall's brain—"If you don't show 'yellow.'" He took a big gulp of the sweet air. "I'll let him see whether I'm 'yellow' or not, and I'll win that mile tomorrow if I have to run my legs off."
Then his shoulders drooped and he jammed his hands viciously into his trouser pockets.
"But I can't! I couldn't have run a bit faster today to save my life. I guess I'm not 'Varsity class."
Bill followed the coach's advice and went to bed early; but sleep would not come. Through the open window floated the voices of some of the fellows singing under the big maple in front of the Girls' Hall. Low-voiced strollers passed. He could hear the frogs croaking in the pond where the freshmen were always ducked. He wondered if Alice Perkins would be at the meeting. Ever since she had risen to the highest circles of the 'Varsity, she had sort of looked down on him. Tomorrow she would probably be sitting in the grand stand with some upperclassman when he finished third or fourth, and would laugh and say, "Oh, yes, indeed. I know the little Marshall boy. We're from the same town."
He had always cared a lot for Alice, but it was enough to make any fellow sore when he rushed up to a girl he'd always known and said: "Hullo, Alice," and she froze him with "Good-morning, Mr. Marshall," and before a crowd, too.
He would like to win that mile just to spite her.
The next thing he knew, he was angrily
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