# Boys' Life/Volume 1/Number 1/Billy's Mile

An Exciting Tale of College Athletics
By BRUCE FARRISON
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 ​smothering the whirring alarm clock with the bed-clothes and debating whether to get up for breakfast or take just one more nap. Breakfast won, and he struggled sleepily into his clothes.
Later, he strolled down the street to the Union, where a big crowd always congregated before a meeting. The lobby was filled with a swaying, chattering mass of students. He elbowed his way through them, glancing this way and that for a familiar face. Suddenly a voice at his elbow held his attention.
"Marshall ought to win the mile, don’t you think?"
Another voice answered: "Marshall? Ha, ha! Why, man, he's no more in the class with Halloran or Madison and Dean of Mishington than I am! He won't last the first three-quarters. On the quiet, Dean says he's going out for the Intercollegiate record today, and if he does you watch something drop."
"Is that so?" said the first voice, with respect in its tones.
Billy longed to see who had spoken, but shame held his neck as stiff as a ramrod. So he was outclassed, wouldn't last the first three-quarters! Well, it was true! He couldn't run. He'd never get out another year. The coach probably wouldn't want him, anyway. He pushed his way out of the hotel and walked up the street. It was an ideal day for the Intercollegiate; sunny, cool, and with no wind to mar record-breaking. Already, though it was only ten o'clock, the streets were thronged. Tin horns blared, colors waved, and college yells rent the air wherever any number of students assembled. A wave of nervous fear submerged Bill. He saw himself distanced at the end of the first three-quarters, and heard a great cruel roar of laughter from the stands. He had seen that happen once when he was in the junior school, and the memory of it still lingered. He saw himself giving up at the last sprint and crawling off the track a "quitter" and a disgrace to his university.
Unconsciously his steps had turned toward his own house, and now before he realized it he was before the very door. He hesitated, debating whether he had better go in or slink away. Just as he was deciding that they were already ashamed of him, one Riley burst out of the door, and taking the front steps at a leap, almost knocked him down.
"Well, look who's here! Bill the Athlete, by George!" exploded Riley, and then, turning to the house, he yelled:
"Hey, fellows, here's Bill, the man that’s goin' to win the mile today."
The fellows streamed out and surrounded Billy.
"Nine long ones for Bill!" cried Riley. "Now boys, One! Two! Three!"
The old yell sent a thrill through Billy's blood. The fellows hammered his back, congratulating him on his victory in advance, for they took it for granted he would win, and when he protested that he had no chance, they only laughed. Gradually, he began to feel inspired. Of course he would win with the best old 'Varsity in the world back of him! He must! He would run today as he had never run before. What was two seconds? He could make that up in the first half-mile. He'd show them whether he’d last three-quarters or not, and Dean would have to run right down to the tape if he set a new record.
During the light noon meal at training quarters Marshall was preoccupied. He did not see the tense, strained faces of some of his team-mates or notice the over-boisterous unconcern of others. He was too busy mapping out how he would run his race to beat Dean. The running of this mile had become a personal matter between him and the Mishington star.
The meeting was half over. The sprints and hurdles had gone according to anticipations. Carston had fallen down in the weight and only taken second, but good old "Legs" Meeker had won the high jump when he was only expected to get third.
Bill sat on the floor of the dressing-room with his back against a locker. His skin burned from the rubber's hard hands; but in spite of that he shivered and sunk his chin into the collar of his bathrobe. For the hundredth time he made sure that his spiked shoes were
There is only one more lap to go
Suddenly, in a husky voice, he called: "Marshall!"
Bill jumped up and went across to him.
"I got my cork pulled. Best I could do was second. If you don't win, we lose."
"All out for the mile!" bellowed the caller.
Bill hurried to the door.
"Good luck, old man," someone called, but Bill hardly heard.
He stepped out of the dark room into the bright sunshine. The light, the cheers, and the fierce blare of rival 'Varsity bands struck him like a blow. His knees shook as he jogged across the field. His breath came hard, as if he had run a long way. As he neared the starting-line, the stands resolved themselves from a black mass into a sea of faces with crested waves of color.
Bill squatted cross-legged on the grass and adjusted his shoes, tying the laces with great care. Then he drew his bathrobe closer and analyzed the crowd. To the right of the line, a blue splotch of banners marked the Mishington section. Mishington was the 'Varsity's great athletic rival. Dean was Mishington's hope in the mile, and even now, here and there in the blue phalanx, cries as to what he would do to the others spurted out. These were directed at the Madison crowd, who sat next to them. Madison retorted by derisively calling Mishington's attention to the fact that Halloran was entered in the mile, too.
"With Halloran We'll tie a can To Mishington,"
they sang.
The 'Varsity's own section was next to Madison, and right on the line. The boys were not entering into the cat-calling of Mishington and Madison, but but silently, with tense faces. The cheer leaders leaned idly on their big megaphones.
"I guess the boys feel pretty blue over Andrews getting his cork pulled. Looks like we'd lost the meeting," Bill muttered.
He felt detached, like some utterly unprejudiced observer. A hand on his shoulder recalled him. The coach was standing over him. His mouth was drawn down a bit at the corners, and his face was grim.
"Time to get on the track, Marshall," he said. "Now, just remember this mile will be won in the last hundred yards."
The hand on Bill's shoulder tightened and then gave him a little push, as he rose and stepped toward the track.
A long yell thundered from the Mishington stands as Dean limbered up in a jog down the cinder-path. The Madison boys took it
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up like an echo as Halloran followed him. Bill came close behind Halloran. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the lolling cheer-leader straighten up, signal the yell number to his lieutenants, and then bellow his hoarse instructions to the stands.
"All up: all up! One! Two! Three!" Bill heard, and then the old 'Varsity yell, with his name at the end, split the air.
A grim determination stiffened him as he trotted back to the start.
From the runners grouped around the tape. Bill picked out Dean, in a blue jersey, and Halloran, in the bright red of Madison. Someone with a paper and pencil rushed past him and began to call numbers and names.
​"Dean, number three; Halloran, number nine!" he cried.
Then a dozen other entrants.
"Marshall, number seventeen."
"Here!" shouted Billy, frightfully worried lest he be overlooked.
A far-away voice droned something about a pistol-shot at the last lap. They were in line now.
"Get on your marks!"
Billy seemed hemmed in by rank on rank of crouching figures. He touched elbows with the entrant of some fresh-water college down the State.
This man thrashed his arm and growled fretfully.
"Can'cher gim'me some room?"
Bill began to think that the starter had forgotten them.
"Get ready!"
Another year of waiting. He shook like a man in a chill; his muscles ached, and he held his breath. The man from the fresh-water college sprawled nervously to his knees.
"Bang!"
Blindly, with elbows flying, Bill leaped into his stride. lie drew his breath in choking gasps and held it as long as he could. His mouth was dry and wouldn’t stay shut, his trained lungs soon began to work naturally, however, the beat of his feet grew mechanical, the fog before his eyes dissolved, and he found himself sliding round the first turn of the track.
Just in front of him bobbed a blue jersey.
"That's Dean," muttered Bill. Farther ahead, be saw another blue jersey.
"Their other man is setting the pace for him and setting it fast,” he reasoned. "Oh, well, this mile'll be won in the last hundred yards. I'll just stick."
As they swung into the straight and ended the first lap, a roaring filled his ears, and he knew dully that the crowd was cheering. They rounded the turn again and kept on up the back stretch. Bill was running like a machine. His mind was concerned with nothing but following those two blue jerseys. For some time he had faintly heard a low "pad, pad" behind him. All at once it grew louder and resolved itself into the thud of a runner's feet. A hand, then an arm, then a head and shoulders came into his range of vision. They were passing the stands for the second time, and the roar of the crowd was in his ears again. The other runner had drawn slowly past him and shut off his view of Dean. He recognized the red jersey of Halloran. Bill drew himself together to spurt hotly and pass this hateful red jersey, but a still voice within him kept calling, "Keep cool, keep cool! Remember, this mile will be won in the last hundred yards," and he stuck doggedly to his stride. A blue jersey fell back to the red one. Dimly Bill saw a figure with wobbly knees and pumping arms. Then he ranged alongside and the figure dropped back out of sight.
"Dean's pacemaker," he gritted.
A great wave of weariness rolled over him. Each step became a separate effort. His eyes came back to the red jersey in front of him. It rose and fell with machine-like precision. No weariness there! Then the still voice within him said: "He's probably as tired as you are. Keep on! you're not yellow."
An immense sense of irritation filled him. He felt that he was being badly treated. The red back in front of him had turned into a lamp at the rear of a train. What good did it do him to be running down the track after it? He never could catch it.
"Bang!"
The jarring report rings in Billy’s ears. It brings him to himself. Everything clears up. He is in a race and there is only one more lap to go. That red spot is not a lamp. It is Halloran, and Dean is up in front somewhere. If he can catch the red jersey, maybe he can see him. His legs ache and it hurts to breathe, but he spurs himself on. He is gaining on the red jersey. It does not rise and fall mechanically any more. Now it is beside him, and he catches a glimpse of a white face and an open mouth as it slips behind. Only one head! What does Dean look like? Oh, yes, a blue jersey. He turns it over in his brain till his head aches.
An unusual ounce of strength comes into play. He plunges forward. No blue jersey to be seen. His knees begin to wobble and his elbows are working like pump-handles. He closes his eyes. His feet slip and turn. Dimly he thinks he must be running in sand. Why not sit down and rest? How quiet it is! Suddenly the peaceful quiet is shattered by a shrill girlish voice: "O Billy, Billy!"
Billy opens his eyes dazedly. Right in front of him bobs a hazy blot of color. It doesn't burst like the other blots. He draws every muscle together in a last effort to leave this awful thing behind. It is close at hand now, right at his shoulder. Then it disappears and he is alone. He sees the track at his feet. It flies up toward him, he dodges to escape being hit, and then all goes black.
The next thing Billy knew, someone was shaking him and trying to make him wake up. He didn't want to; but finally he opened his eyes. Fellows were crowding round him and trying to shake his hand. What for, he wondered! High over the noise about him came the 'Varsity yell, with his name three times on the end.
Then Billy understood; but he only grinned and said to himself:
"Alice, I'll have to go round to see you and let you get a little more practice on the Mr. Marshall business. You clean forgot it the last hundred yards."
"I tell you,” said the young sub-editor of a local paper, "that the editor isn't in, and I'm not going to tell you again. If you have anything for him you can leave it with me."
"Very well," said the caller, taking off his coat. "I came in to give him a good sound thrashing, but I'll give it to you instead."
Two next-door neighbors quarrelled, and one of them exclaimed excitedly:
"Call yourself a man of sense! Why, you are next door to an idiot."
"Did you find it expensive at the seaside?"
"Very; even the tide was high."