# The Purple Pennant/Chapter 26

IT was getting well along toward five o'clock and the sun was sending slanting rays down Brent Field. The two-twenty-dash trials had been run and the final in the low hurdles was just over. In the former Perry, Kirke and Soper had all won places and in the latter Beaton and Peyton had finished first and second and added eight more points to the Clearfield score. The broad-jump and shot-put, too, were over and the Blue had won first and third places in the former and first place in the latter. Partridge had been a good second in the weight event and Brimmer a poor third. In the broad-jump Toby Sears had captured three points. Only the pole-vault, the two-twenty-dash and the hammer-throw remained and the score stood: Clearfield, 36½; Springdale, 44½.
A moment ago the result of the ball game at Springdale had come over the wire and had been announced, and Clearfield was feeling somewhat ​dejected. Springdale had won, 8 to 2. That and the dismal outlook here at the field had caused the purple banners to droop on their staffs. But there was one purple flag that still flaunted itself bravely in the lengthening rays of sunlight. It hung from the railing of the stand on the third base side of the field, a handsome pennant of royal purple with a wreath of green laurel leaves on it enclosing the letters "C. H. S." Behind it sat Louise Brent and a bevy of her companions. The girls were in a quandary. Already several Track Team heroes were tied in the number of points gained by them and the task of awarding the pennant promised to be an extremely difficult one. If Guy Felker won the pole-vault, which was possible at the present stage, the matter would be simplified, for he would then have ten points to his credit, two more than anyone else. The girls discussed the difficulty and referred again and again to the score that Louise was keeping, but without finding a way out of the quandary.
"There's just one thing to do," said Dick Lovering's sister, Grace, finally. "It was understood that the pennant was to go to the boy doing the most for the school, wasn't it?"
The others assented doubtfully. "I suppose that was what was meant," said Louise, "but I thought​we could give it to someone who had made more points than anyone else and that it would be all quite simple. But with three and maybe four fellows making eight——"
"That's just it," said Grace. "We can't ask them to toss up for it or draw lots, can we? So the best thing to do is to decide after it's all over which of them really did the best."
"But how can we decide that?" asked May Burnham. "How are we to know which did the best?"
"We can," replied Grace convincedly. "Guy and the others will know if we don't."
"Guy will have ten points himself if he wins the pole-vault," said Louise. "That would make it very simple."
"I don't believe he's going to," said another girl. "He's just missed that try, and I think that long-legged Springdale boy did it a minute ago."
"Oh, dear, if he doesn't!" exclaimed Louise hopelessly. "There, he's gone and missed it again! No, he hasn't! He hasn't! He went over! Oh, do you think that makes him win?"
Evidently it didn't, for while Guy was being congratulated by those around the vaulting standard the bar was again raised and a boy with a megaphone announced: "The bar is now at ten feet one and one-half inches!"
​But interest was drawn from the prolonged struggle there to the track. At the beginning of the straightaway they were gathering the contestants in the final of the two-hundred-and-twenty-yards-dash, the last of the track events. Clearfield and Springdale had each placed three men in the trials. For Clearfield these were Perry Hull, Kirke and Soper; for Springdale, Knight, Lawrence and Gedge. The trials had been done in twenty-four and three-fifths and twenty-four and four-fifths, rather slow time, but the final promised to show faster performances. It was figured that if Captain Felker could win five points in the pole-vault and the Purple's sprinters could capture first and second places in the two-twenty, Clearfield might after all squeeze out a victory, for Partridge was counted on to have a very good chance to get the best there was in the hammer-throw, which had been going on for some time in the field across the way. But it was necessary to get eight points in the sprint, as it was reckoned, and there were few who dared hope for such a result. Kirke, it was generally conceded, might possibly win first place, but there were two good runners in the Springdale trio who would certainly make a showing.
Perry drew the fourth lane, with Lawrence of Springdale on his left and Orson Kirke on his ​right. Kirke looked grimly determined and Perry was pretty sure that he meant to win. And, thought Perry, since he had failed in the hundred he really deserved to. But Perry was not yet conceding the race. He had made mistakes in his first race. He had realized it afterwards. Now he meant to profit by what he had learned. He wasn't so frightened this time, either. He had been through the fire.
The crowd about the start drew back to the turf and a whistle shrilled. Down at the finish a handkerchief waved response. The six boys stopped prancing and settled to their places. The starter stepped back.
"On your marks!"
Perry, settling his toes into the cinders, heard the click of the pistol hammer as it was drawn back. There was a sudden silence.
"Set!"
An instant's pause and then the pistol spoke sharply and the race was on. Six lithe, white-clad forms launched themselves forward, twelve arms beat the air and twelve legs twinkled. Three of the six had drawn ahead in the first lunge, Perry and Kirke amongst them. Twenty yards away the field was already strung out. Kirke, running terrifically, was a yard to the good. Perry and Lawrence ​were next. Soper was a yard or so behind them. But that order changed again in the next few seconds. Perry was breasting Kirke then and Lawrence was almost even with them. Soper was making bad going and falling back. The shouts of the crowd in the stands and around the finish made a crashing bedlam of sound that drowned completely the quick scrunch-scrunch of the runners' shoes and their hoarse breathing.
Now it was half-distance, and Perry saw the white figure at his right fall back and felt rather than saw another form crawling up and up on the other side near the rim. Lawrence held on, too, and fifty yards from the finish Perry, Lawrence and Gedge were neck-and-neck, with Kirke a single pace behind. Soper and Knight were already beaten. Then Gedge forged ahead and the wild shouts of the Springdale contingent took on new vigor. Cries of "Clearfield! Clearfield!" "Springdale! Springdale!" filled the air. Dimly, Perry heard his own name over and over.
Now the slim white thread was rushing up the track toward him. He had no sense of moving himself, although his lungs were aching and his arms swung back and forth and his legs, suddenly weighted with lead, still spurned the track. It was as though he, in spite of the painful efforts he was ​making, was standing still and the finish line was racing toward him! For a moment he wondered about Kirke, but for a moment only. The tape was but twenty yards away now and it was time for the last supreme endeavor.
Gedge was two paces in front when Perry started his final rush. In ten yards he was level. In five more he was back with Lawrence. Like a white streak Perry breasted the string, his arms thrown up, his head back, and after him came Gedge and Lawrence, Kirke, Knight and Soper.
Once over the line, Perry staggered, recovered and then fell, rolling limply across the cinders. A dozen eager boys rushed to his assistance and he was lifted and borne to the turf where, a moment later, he found his breath.
"Kirke?" he whispered.
"No," was the answer. "They got second and third. You broke the dual record, Hull; twenty-three and four-fifths!"
Perry considered that an instant in silence. Then: "We lose the meet, though, don't we?"
His informant nodded. "Suppose so. There's still the hammer-throw, but I guess we're dished. It isn't your fault, though. You ran a peach of a race, Hull!"
Perry climbed weakly to his feet, with assist​ance, and found that at last he could take a long breath again. "I'm sorry about Kirke," he said rather vaguely.
"Are you?" gasped a voice behind him. "So'm I, but glad you won, Perry!" It was Kirke himself. Perry shook hands with him and then others pushed around for the same purpose; Lawrence and Gedge of Springdale, and Arthur Beaton and Toby Sears and several others, and, finally, Skeet, Skeet with puzzled admiration written large on his thin face.
"I never knew you had it in you, Hull!" he declared, wringing Perry's hand. "Kid, you made a fine finish! I thought it was all over ten yards from the tape, and then, bing!—you left him standing! But don't stay around here and get stiff. Beat it to the shower!"
"Wait! What's the score, please?"
"Oh, they're fifty-two and a half to our forty-six and a half. Cap got first in the pole-vault, but Mander wasn't placed. They've got the meet, all right, but we made 'em fight for it!"
"Fifty-two?" repeated Perry, puzzled. "But don't they have to have more than fifty-four to win?"
"Yes, the hammer-throw isn't finished yet. They'll get three in that, anyhow."
​Perry looked around. The field was already emptying. "I'll get my dressing-gown, I guess," he said.
"All right, but don't stand around too long," said Skeet. "I'm going over to see them finish the hammer. Better luck next year, Hull."
He nodded and joined the throng straggling through the gate. Perry hurried back up the field and found his dressing-gown and then, disregarding Skeet's suggestion, he too followed the crowd to where, on the lot behind the field, it had spread itself in a half-circle around the group of hammer-throwers. Perry wedged himself through to where he could see a little.
"Hello," said a voice at his elbow and he looked up into Lanny's smiling countenance. "You ran a great race, Perry. I wasn't needed to-day after all, was I?" He found Perry's hand and clasped it warmly. "Your time bettered the best I ever made in my life. Next year you'll have them standing on their heads, or I'm a Dutchman!"
"Thanks," murmured Perry. "I guess I wouldn't have beaten you, Lanny, if you'd been there. How—how is this coming out? Is there any chance for us to get the meet?"
"No, I think not. Partridge did a hundred and thirty-one and eight inches, I believe, and no one's ​come near him. But that big chap of theirs will get second, I guess. Fudge Shaw is right after him, though. There's Springdale's last try."
Perry, standing on tip-toe, saw the hammer go flying off, but couldn't see where it landed.
"The worst he's done yet," exclaimed Lanny. "By Jove, I wonder——"
There was a sudden stir of excitement about them. "If Shaw can better his last throw," a voice nearby said, "we may have a chance yet. But he's got to beat a hundred and twenty-four and something!"
"Is Fudge still in it?" asked Perry wonderingly. Lanny nodded.
"Yes, he's been doing well, too. So far he's only six feet behind the Springdale chap, I understand. I only got here about five minutes ago. There's Guy Felker over there with the pennant the girls gave him."
"Oh, did he win it? I'm glad of that. How many points did he make, Lanny?"
"Ten; first in the high-jump and pole-vault. Here goes Harry again."
Partridge walked into the circle, dragging his hammer, and the measurer, far out across the field, scuttled for safety, the yellow tape fluttering behind him. The crowd laughed and then grew ​silent. Partridge spun and the weight went hurtling through the air. But the result failed to equal his best throw.
"Now comes Fudge," whispered Lanny. "Gee, but I wish he might beat that Springdale chap. If we could get second place out of this we'd have the meet!"
"Would we?" asked Perry, startled. "I thought——"
"Eight points would give us fifty-four and a half," said Lanny, "and that would be enough, wouldn't it? Funny Falkland is out of it. I thought he was almost as good as Harry."
Perry, dodging behind the heads and shoulders in front of him, saw Fudge throwing off his dressing-gown and step, a rotund but powerful-looking youth, into the ring. Applause greeted him. Fudge glanced around and was seen to wink gravely at someone in the throng. Then he placed the ball of the hammer at the back of the ring, closed his fingers about the handle and raised his shoulders. Silence fell once more and anxious faces watched as the hammer came off the ground and began to swing, slowly at first and then faster and faster above the whitewashed circle. Fudge's feet sped around, shifting like a dancer's, until he was well toward the front of the ring. Then his ​sturdy young body set suddenly, his hands opened and off shot the flying weight, arching through the air, to come to earth at last far across the sunlit field.
The crowd broke and hurried to cluster about the ring, excited voices speculating eagerly on the distance. Out where the hammer had plowed into the sod the measurer was stooping with the tape. Then:
"All right here!" he called.
A breathless moment followed. Heads bent close above the official as he tautened his end of the tape over the wooden rim.
"One hundred," announced the judge, "and . . . twenty . . . five feet and . . ."
But what the inches were Perry didn't hear. A wild shout of rejoicing arose from the friends of Clearfield. Fudge had won second place and Clearfield had captured the meet!
After that all was confusion and noise. Perry suddenly found himself shaking hands laughingly with Mr. Addicks, although what the latter said he couldn't hear. Then his attention was attracted to a commotion nearby as the crowd pushed and swayed. On the shoulders of excited, triumphant schoolmates, Fudge, half in and half out of his crimson robe, was being borne past. He espied ​Perry and waved to him, and Perry forced his way through the throng just as Guy Felker reached up and placed the purple pennant in Fudge's hand.
"W-w-w-what's this?" stammered Fudge.
"It's yours, Fudge!" shouted Guy. "You've won the meet and you get the pennant!"
"B-b-but I d-d-didn't w-w-win this, d-d-did I?" gasped Fudge.
"You bet!"
"W-w-well, but wh-wh-why?"
"Because we needed three points to win the meet, you old idiot," laughed Guy, "and you got them for us!"
"And," supplemented a voice that sounded like Curtis Wayland's, "for numerous other reasons!"
And Fudge, borne forward again, waving the purple pennant high in air, had the grace to blush.