The Purple Pennant/Chapter 2
THE High School Athletic Field—it was officially known as Brent Field—occupied two whole blocks in the newer part of town. The school had used it for a number of years, but only last summer, through the generosity of Mr. Jonathan Brent, Clearfield's richest and most prominent citizen, had it come into actual possession of the field. The gift had been as welcome as unexpected and had saved the school from the difficult task of finding a new location for its athletic activities. But, unfortunately, the possession of a large tract of ground in the best residential part of the town was proving to have its drawbacks. The taxes were fairly large, repairs to stands and fences required a constant outlay, the field itself, while level enough, was far from smooth, and the cinder track, a make-shift affair at the beginning, stood badly in need of reconstruction. Add to these expenses the minor ones of water rent, insurance on buildings and care-taking and you will see (illegible text) the Athletic Association had something to think about.
The town folks always spoke of it as "the town," although it was, as a matter of fact, a city and boasted of over seventeen thousand inhabitants—supported the High School athletic events, notably football and baseball, generously enough, but it was already evident to those in charge that the receipts from gridiron and diamond attractions would barely keep the field as it was and would not provide money for improvements. There had been some talk of an endowment fund from Mr. Brent, but whether that gentleman had ever said anything to warrant the rumor or whether it had been started by someone more hopeful than veracious was a matter for speculation. At any rate, no endowment fund had so far materialized and the Athletic Committee's finances were at a low ebb. Two sections of grandstand had been replaced in the fall, and that improvement promised to be the last for some time, unless, as seemed improbable, the Committee evolved some plan whereby to replenish its treasury. Various schemes had been suggested, such as a public canvass of the town and school. To this, however, Mr. Grayson, the Principal, had objected. It was not, he declared, right to ask the citizens to contribute funds for such a purpose. Nor would he allow a petition to the Board of Education. In (illegible text) Mr. Grayson as good as said that now that the school had been generously presented with an athletic field it was up to the school to look after it. Raising money amongst the students he had no objection to, but the amount obtainable in that manner was too small to make it worth while. The plan of raising the price of admission to baseball and football from twenty-five cents to fifty was favored by some, while others feared that it would keep so many away from the contests that there would be no profit in it. In short, the Committee was facing a difficult problem and with no solution in sight. And the field, from its patched, rickety, high board fence to grandstands and dressing-rooms, loudly demanded succor. Fudge voiced the general complaint when, having without difficulty mounted the fence and dropped to the soggy turf inside, followed more lithely by Perry Hull, he viewed the cinder track with disfavor. The recent rain had flooded it from side to side, and, since it was lower than the ground about it and had been put down with little or no provision for drainage, inch-deep puddles still lingered in the numerous depressions.
"We can't practice here," said Perry.
"Wouldn't that agonize you?" demanded Fudge. "Gee, what's the good of having an athletic field if you can't keep it up? This thing is g-g-going to be a regular w-w-white elephant!"
"It looks pretty soppy, doesn't it?" asked Perry. "I guess we'd better wait until it's drier. I don't mind running, but I wasn't counting on having to swim!"
"Maybe it's better on the straightaway," responded Fudge more cheerfully. "We'll go over and see."
As luck had it, it was drier on the far side of the field, and Fudge advanced the plea that by keeping close to the outer board Perry could get along without splashing much. Perry, however, ruefully considered his Sunday trousers and made objections.
"But it isn't mud," urged Fudge. "It's just a little water. That won't hurt your trousers a bit. And you can reef them up some, too. Be a sport, Perry! Gee, I'd do it in a minute if I could!"
"Guess that's about what I'll do it in," said the other. "Well, all right. Here goes. Give me the sneakers."
"Here they are. Guess we'd better go down to the seats and change them, though. It's too damp to sit down here."
So they walked to the grandstand at the turn and Perry pulled off his boots and tried the sneakers on. They were a little too large, but he thought they would do. Fudge suggested stuffing some paper in the toes, but as there was no paper handy that plan was abandoned. Perry's hat, coat and vest were laid beside his boots and he turned up the bottoms of his trousers. Then they walked along the track, skirting puddles or jumping over them. Fortunately, they had the field to themselves, thanks to locked gates, something Perry was thankful for when Fudge, discouraging his desire to have the event over with at once, insisted that he should prance up and down the track and warm up.
"You can't run decently until you've got your legs warm and your muscles limber," declared Fudge wisely. "And you'd better try a few starts, too."
So, protestingly, Perry danced around where he could find a dry stretch, lifting his knees high in the manner illustrated by Fudge, and then allowed the latter to show him how to crouch for the start.
"Put your right foot up to the line," instructed Fudge. "Here, I'll scratch a line across for you. There. Now put your foot up to that—your right foot, silly! That's your left! Now put your left knee alongside it and your hands down. That's it, only you want to dig a bit of a hole back there for your left foot, so you'll get away quick. Just scrape out the cinders a little. All right. Now when I say 'Set,' you come up and lean forward until the weight comes on your front foot and hands; most on your foot; your hands are just to steady yourself with. That's the trick. Now then; 'On your mark!' Wait! I didn't say 'Set!'"
"Oh, well, cut out the trimmings," grumbled Perry. "I can't stay like this forever. Besides, I'd rather start on the other foot, anyway."
"All right; some fellows do," replied Fudge, untroubled, neglecting to explain that he had made a mistake. Perry made the change and expressed his satisfaction.
"That's more like it. Say, how do you happen to know so much about it, Fudge?"
"Observation, son. Now, all right? Ready to try it? Set! . . . Go!"
Perry went, but he stumbled for the first three or four steps and lost his stride completely.
"You had your weight on your hands instead of your feet," commented the instructor. "Try it again."
He tried it many times, at last becoming quite interested in the problem of getting away quickly and steadily, and finally Fudge declared himself satisfied. "Now I'll stand back here a ways where I can start you and at the same time see when you cross the line down there. Of course, we ought to have another fellow here to help, but I guess I can manage all right." He set his stop-watch, composed his features into a stern frown and retired some twenty yards back from the track and half that distance nearer the finish line. "On your mark!" called Fudge. "Set! . . . Go!"
Perry sped from the mark only to hear Fudge's arresting voice. "Sorry, Perry, but I forgot to start the watch that time. Try it again."
"That's a fine trick! I had a bully getaway," complained the sprinter. "Make it good this time, Fudge; I'm getting dog-tired!"
"I will. Now, then! On your mark! . . . Set! . . . Go!"
Off leaped Perry again, not quite so nicely this time, and down the wet path he sped, splashing through the puddles, head back, legs twinkling. And, as though trying to make pace for him, Fudge raced along on the turf in a valiant endeavor to judge the finish. Perry's Sunday trousers made a gray streak across the line, Fudge pressed convulsively on the stem of the watch and the trial was over!
"Wh-what was it?" inquired Perry breathlessly as he walked back. Fudge was staring puzzledly at the dial.
"I made it twelve seconds," he responded dubiously.
"Twelve! And you said I'd ought to do it under eleven!" Perry viewed him discouragedly.
"Well, maybe I didn't snap it just when I should have," said the timer. "It's hard to see unless you're right at the line."
"You must have! I'll bet anything I did it better than twelve. Don't you think I did?"
"Well, it looked to me as if you were going pretty fast," answered Fudge cautiously. "But those trousers, and not having any spikes, and the track being so wet—Gee, but you did get splashed, didn't you?"
"I should say so," replied Perry, observing his trousers disgustedly. "The water even went into my face! Say, let's try it again, Fudge, and you stand here at the finish."
"All right, but how'll I start you?"
"Wave a handkerchief or something?"
"I've got it. I'll clap a couple of sticks together." So Fudge set out to find his sticks while Perry, rather winded, seated himself on the stand. Fudge finally came back with the required articles and Perry declared himself rested and ready for another trial. "I'll clap the sticks together first for you to get set and then for the start. Like this." Fudge illustrated. "Suppose you can hear it?"
_p0035.jpg)
"'On your mark! . . . Set! . . . Go!'" "Sure." Perry proceeded back to the beginning
of the straightaway and Fudge stationed himself at
the finish, scuffling a line across the track for his
better guidance. Then, while the sprinter was getting
his crouch, he experimented with slapping the
sticks and snapping the watch at the same instant,
a rather difficult proceeding.
"All ready!" shouted Perry, poised on finger-tips and knee.
"All right!" called Fudge in response. He examined his watch, fixed a finger over the stem, took a deep breath and clapped the sticks. Perry set. Another clap and a simultaneous jab at the watch, and Perry was racing down the track. Fudge's eyes took one fleeting look at the runner and then fixed themselves strainedly on the line he had drawn across the cinders. Nearer and nearer came the scrunch of the flying sneakers, there was a sudden blur of gray in Fudge's vision and he snapped the watch. Perry turned and trotted anxiously back.
"Well?" he asked.
"Better," replied Fudge. "Of course, the track's awfully slow"
"How much? Let's see?"
Fudge yielded the watch and Perry examined it. "Eleven and two-fifths!" he shouted protestingly. "Say, this thing's crazy! I know mighty well I didn't run nearly so fast as I did the first time!"
"I didn't snap it soon enough the other time," explained Fudge. "Honest, Perry, eleven and two-fifths isn't half bad. Why, look at the slow track and your long trousers"
"Yes, and they weigh a ton, they're so wet," grumbled Perry. "And so do these shoes. I'm going to try it some time when the track's dry and I've got regular running things on. I suppose eleven and two-fifths isn't terribly bad, considering!"
"Bad! It's mighty good," said Fudge warmly. "Why, look here, Perry, if you can do it in that time to-day you can do it nearly a second faster on a dry track and—and all! You see if you can't. I'll bet you you'll be a regular sprinter by the time we meet Springdale!"
"Honest, Fudge?"
"Honest to goodness! To-morrow you put your name down for the Track Team and get yourself some running things. I'll go along with you if you like. I know just what you ought to have."
"I don't suppose I'll really have any show for the team," said Perry modestly. "But it'll be pretty good fun. Say, Fudge, I didn't know I could run as fast as I did that first time. It seemed to me I was going like the very dickens! It—it's mighty interesting, isn't it?"
"Yes," replied Fudge, as Perry donned his things. "You don't want to try the two-twenty or the hurdles, do you?"
"I should say not! I'm tuckered out. I'm going to try the two-twenty some day, though. I don't think I'd care about hurdling."
"You can't tell," murmured Fudge thoughtfully.
Later, when they had once more surmounted the fence and were heading toward B Street, Fudge, who had said little for many minutes, observed: "I wonder, Perry, if a fellow wouldn't have more fun with the Track Team than with the Nine. I've a good mind to go in for it."
"Why don't you?" asked Perry, encouragingly eager. "What would you try? Running or—or what?" His gaze unconsciously strayed over his friend's rotund figure.
"N-no," replied Fudge hesitantly. "I don't think so. I might go in for the mile, maybe. I don't know yet. I'm just thinking of it. I'd have to study a bit. Perhaps the weights would be my line. Ever put the shot?" Perry shook his head. "Neither have I, but I'll bet I could. All it takes is practice. Say, wouldn't it be funny if you and I both made the team?"
"It would be dandy," declared Perry. "Do you suppose there'd be any chance of it?"
"Why not?" asked Fudge cheerfully.