# Tom, Dick and Harriet/Chapter 22
### CHAPTER XXIII FERRY HILL VS. HAMMOND

THE Oval at Hammond Academy lies on a broad plateau just beyond the campus. Back of it the hill sweeps abruptly away, covered with a dense growth of timber. From the top of the grand stand one can almost see the river over the roof of the nearest dormitory. Nature has supplied an ideal spot for an athletic ground and human hands have made the most of it. There is an excellent quarter-mile cinder track twelve feet wide, supplemented by a straight-away for the 220 yards’ dash and the low hurdles. Inside the track is a perfectly level expanse of well-kept turf which made the Ferry Hill visitors sigh with envy. The grand stand is small but well-built and well-maintained, and at one end of it there is a tiny building which serves as a dressing-room and store-house. From its roof a short flag-pole to-day bore the cherry-and-black banner of Hammond, while from an improvised staff at the top of the grand stand floated a bedraggled Ferry Hill flag.
The day was warm and, since there had been no rain for some time, the little breezes made miniature whirlwinds of dust along the track. By half past two the stand was well filled. Ferry Hill had preëmpted the south end, and her small band of supporters were cheering vigorously. Below, about the starting-line for the 100 yards’ dash, a dozen officials, instructors and students of the two schools, were awaiting the contestants.
Near the curve of the field to the right the entries for the shot put and broad jump had gathered, the white costumes with their dashes of cherry-and-black or of brown gleaming brightly against the vivid green of the level turf. The breezes fluttered the handkerchiefs laid along the runway to indicate the points at which the jumpers were to find their strides, and whipped the loose trunks tightly against straining leg muscles as the white-clad bodies raced over the brown path.
The clerk of the course, a Hammond youth, bawled importantly for the contestants in the trial heats of the 100 yards and presently eight youths gathered at the head of the stretch. Three were Ferry Hill entries and five wore the Hammond colors. Four at a time they sped down the alleys and Ferry Hill found cause for rejoicing, for three of her sprinters had qualified for the finals—Post, Eaton and Walker—while only one Hammond man had made good.
Up on the grand stand Harry signified her delight by waving the brown-and-white banner she carried. Beside her was Mr. Kearney, and beyond him Mrs. Emery and the Doctor. The visitor had pleaded ignorance and Harry was explaining volubly.
“There are twelve events, you see,” she said. “And in each one the first four fellows count. The winner makes five points, the one coming in second makes three, third place counts two and fourth place one. That makes eleven points for each event, or 132 points for the meet. And of course the team that wins a majority of the 132 points wins the meet. Do you see what I mean?”
“I think so. But wouldn’t it be possible for each side to make half of 132 points? Then nobody would win, eh?”
“It would be a tie. But it doesn’t very often happen that way, Mr. Kearney. I hope it won’t to-day, don’t you?”
“Yes, it’s better to have it decided one way or the other, I guess. What are they going to do now?”
“I think this is the 120 yards’ hurdles; the high hurdles, they call it. We won’t do much in this because we have only two fellows entered and neither of them is much good. That’s Kirby, the tall one. He’s one of the pitchers on the base-ball team.”
“I see. He’s a fine looking boy, Miss Harriet. Here they come! Hello, some one’s taken a tumble!”
“It’s Glidden,” said Harry disappointedly. “We won’t get a single point out of this, I’ll— Oh, yes we will! Go it, Kirb! Go it! There! He was second, wasn’t he?”
But when the megaphone was pointed in their direction, Baxter, official announcer, gave Hammond first, second and fourth places and Ferry Hill third.
“That makes Hammond 9 and Ferry Hill 2,” said Harry. “Well, we didn’t expect anything in the high hurdles, so we’re really two points ahead, aren’t we?”
“Half-milers this way!” called the clerk.
Ferry Hill had three candidates for this event, Porter, Pryor and Kirby, to Hammond’s six. But both Roy and Pryor were expected to win places, and Ferry Hill’s supporters cheered confidently. Then the nine runners were poised on the mark, the pistol barked, and there was a little struggle for the pole. As they swept by the stand Holmes of Hammond was making the pace, with Pryor close behind him and Roy well back in the bunch. At the first turn they strung out along the inner rim of the track, the pace-maker taking it very easy indeed. Into the back-stretch they went, nine white-clad bodies agleam in the sunlight, and a cheer arose from where the brown-and-white flags fluttered as Pryor stepped around Holmes and took the lead, setting a pace that opened up several yards between them. After the next turn the runners were well stretched out along the track, and as they swept into the home-stretch and finished the first lap and the first half of the distance it was evident that only five of the nine would dispute the points. These were Porter and Pryor of Ferry Hill and Holmes, James and Garrison of Hammond. Kirby apparently had not recovered from the high hurdles and was running next to last, quite out of the race.
As the runners passed the stand the flags waved and the cheers urged them on. It was Pryor, Holmes, James, Porter and Garrison now, and this order was maintained until they were once more in the back-stretch. Then Roy passed James and Holmes took the lead from Pryor. An eighth of a mile from the finish the pace increased. Garrison dropped farther and farther behind and Roy crept past Pryor. At the turn the latter, run out, dropped behind James and finally was overhauled by Garrison. Into the home-stretch sped the first three runners with scarce two yards dividing first man from last. The stand was on its feet, flags waving and voices straining. Then, twenty yards from the tape, James of Hammond spurted magnificently and had passed the two ahead of him before they knew it. Roy with a final effort worked loose from Holmes and crossed the line a bare two yards back of James. Hammond 8, Ferry Hill 3.
“Oh,” said Harry disappointedly, “that’s too bad. Dick was counting on six points in the eight-eighty. Let me see, that makes the score 17 to 5 in Hammond’s favor. Isn’t that just too mean for anything?”
Mr. Kearney agreed smilingly that it was. “But it’s early yet,” he said. “They’re putting up the strings again. What does that mean?”
“Final of the hundred yards’ dash,” answered Harry. “Oh, I do hope Chub will win this!”
“Chub? Let me see now, he’s one of the four conspirators—I mean one of the society, isn’t he?”
“Yes. His real name is Tom, you know. That’s he; the boy with the white sweater over his shoulders; see?”
“Yes. So that’s Tom? And your name is Harriet; and then there’s a Dick, too, isn’t there?”
“Why, yes, Dick Somes.”
“To be sure. And the fourth one?”
“Roy, the boy that just came in second in the half-mile.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Kearney. “I think I have you straightened out now. Shall we stand up so we can see this better?”
Ferry Hill was certain of three places in the 100 yards since she had three of the four entries, but it was going to make some difference which those places were. Chub and Post and Walker were crouching side by side, each at the head of his alley, and with them was the lone Hammond entry, a fellow named Ranck. Mr. Kearney ventured a mild pun on the name, but Harry was too intent to heed it. Then the pistol broke the stillness and the four leaped away from the mark and came charging down the track. It was all over in an instant—to be exact, ten and two fifths seconds—with Chub first by a yard and Ranck in second place. Harry mourned the loss of second place but looked cheerful as she scrawled a very big, black 8 to Ferry Hill’s credit. The score so far stood Ferry Hill 13, Hammond 20; and that looked lots better than 5 to 17.
There was quite a field for the 220 yards’ dash, and three trial heats were run before the participants in the finals were decided on. In the end Ferry Hill won two places and Hammond two, Post and Chub Eaton qualifying for the brown-and-white.
The quarter-mile run was a tame affair, Holmes of Hammond taking the lead at the start and never being once headed to the tape. Roy won second place again, followed by Pryor and Kirby, and Ferry Hill’s stock went up several points. The score now stood 19 for the visitors and 25 for the home team. Things began to look more cheerful, and Dick, looking over Sid’s shoulder as the manager reckoned up the points, felt encouraged and even hopeful. But ten minutes later the prospect was very black indeed. The result of the pole vault was made known, giving Hammond 9½ points and Ferry Hill 1½, Cullum having tied a Hammondite for third place. Then the best Glidden was able to do in the low hurdles was to come in a bad fourth.
“The dickens!” wailed Sid. “That gives them 45½ to our 21½! I guess it’s all over but the shouting, Dick.”
“And I guess we won’t have to do any of that,” was the answer. “Isn’t the broad jump finished? I’m going over to see. By the way, what comes next? Two-twenty dash? Where’s Chub? Find him and send him over to me, Sid.”
But the announcer was already busy with his crimson megaphone, and Dick stopped to listen. Ferry Hill had secured first and third places in the broad jump and second, third and fourth in the shot put. Sid’s pencil worked busily as the cheers swept across from the south end of the stand.
“That’s better,” breathed Dick as he watched the totals appear. “Ferry Hill 34½, Hammond 54½.”
“We’ve only gained four points,” objected Sid.
“Yes, but I didn’t look for anything much in either of those events, and we got the big end of each. Give us six points in the high jump, six in the hammer throw and five in the two-twenty, Sid, and see what it foots up.”
“Only 51½,” said Sid.
“Is that all?” Dick frowned perplexedly. “We’ll have to find some more somewhere, then. Oh, Chub! Chub Eaton! Where’s Post? Hurry him up; I want to see you both.”
Affairs began to look up for Ferry Hill after the 220 yards’ dash, for Post won handily and Chub found the tape a bare six inches ahead of Ranck of Hammond. Another Hammondite, Custis, took fourth. And when the time was announced it was found that Post had simply knocked the top off of Hammond’s record for that event. The latter was 24⅖ seconds, and Post had finished in 24 flat. Then came the results of the high jump and the hammer throw, and Ferry Hill’s supporters went crazy with delight. In each event the wearers of the brown-and-white had done better than any one had dared expect. In the jump they had secured all but two points and in the hammer throw Fernald had sent the weight 129 feet 6 inches, securing first place by over four feet from his nearest competitor, Harris. Post had got third place, leaving only one point for the cherry-and-black. And the score showed Ferry Hill ahead, 61½ to 59½!
Up on the stand Harry was dancing with glee, deaf to the smiling remonstrances of her mother. Mr. Kearney, too, made no effort to disguise his pleasure and excitement.
“Well, I fancy that means a victory for us, eh, Miss Harriet?” he asked. “There’s only one more event, isn’t there?”
“Yes, the mile run,” answered Harry breathlessly. “And—oh, where’s my pencil? Quick! Thank you. Oh, dear! We’ve got to get at least five points or Hammond will win yet! We must get first place or second and third! Oh, I don’t believe we can ever do it! There’s only Dick and Chase; the others aren’t any good at all! Dick! Dick! You’ve got to win!”
“Well, from what I’ve heard of him, I think he’s quite likely to,” said Mr. Kearney smilingly.
“He hasn’t been doing very well, though,” grieved Harry. “You see, he’s had so much to think about and attend to! I don’t see how it could be a tie, but if it should—would—do we get the money?”
“I’d have to think about that,” answered Mr. Kearney gravely. “You recollect that the terms called for a victory.” “Oh, I know! But wouldn’t it be awful if we lost the dormitory by half a point?”
“I suppose it would,” said he, looking smilingly at her pale face. “Well, I won’t promise, Miss Harriet, but maybe in that case I might give something, say a thousand or two. How would that do?”
“It—it would be better than nothing,” answered Harry without enthusiasm. “Oh, I do wish they’d hurry!”
“It is a bit uncomfortable, this suspense. We ought to call this race the Dormitory Stakes, eh?”
“It isn’t too late to cancel that wager, Mr. Kearney,” laughed the Doctor, leaning across. But the other shook his head.
“I don’t want to, Doctor. That check will be cheap for a victory over our old rival.”
“There!” cried Harry. “They’re on their marks! Why, Warren isn’t there! That gives us only three men! Isn’t it dreadful?”
“Which is Dick Somes?” asked the visitor. Harry pointed him out with a finger that trembled.
“The big boy with the yellowish hair,” she whispered. “And the little one is Chase. And Townsend’s next to him on the left. The boy with black hair, the one with the cherry-and-black ribbon across his shirt is Connor! He’s Hammond’s crack distance runner. I—I hope he won’t win!”
“So do I,” answered Mr. Kearney. “They’re off!”
The pistol broke sharply on the air and the field of eight runners leaped forward.
“Oh!” breathed Harry. “It’s four times around, and I’m just sure I’ll die before they finish!”
There’s nothing very spectacular about a mile race. It is rather a test of endurance than of speed when compared to the middle distances and sprints, and as the time for the distance is likely to be somewhere around five minutes the pace is not fast enough to be inspiring to the spectators. As the runners took the first corner they seemed rather to be out for a gentle exercise jog than taking part in a race which, no matter how it was won, would decide the fortunes of the day.
Ferry Hill had entered Dick Somes, Chase and Townsend. Warren had intended to run, but at the last moment had funked it. For Hammond there were Connor, Parish, White, Temple and Frothingham. Connor held the Hammond record of 5 minutes 7⅗ seconds and Parish was credited with something very close to that. The other wearers of the cherry-and-black were unknown quantities. Dick had done the mile the year before in about 5 minutes and 6 seconds, but so far this spring had not been able to come within ten seconds of that time. Chase was still slower and Townsend had absolutely no hope of being able to finish inside the half-minute. But he was going to be useful.
At the beginning of the second lap he pushed to the front and took the lead, none disputing it with him. For the next lap he set a hard pace. Connor was running fifth, with Dick dogging him closely, stride for stride. At half the distance Townsend drew aside, badly tuckered, and the lead went to Temple of Hammond. By this time the eight runners were strung out for fifty yards, with Temple, Parish, Chase, Connor and Dick well together in the van. As they went by the stand on the beginning of the third lap the cheering became frantic. As though in response, Connor suddenly drew out and passed Chase. But Dick was close after him, and at the turn they had settled down again. Temple gave the lead to Parish and gradually dropped back. Then Chase began to lose and the hearts of Ferry Hill’s supporters sank. It was Parish, Connor and Dick now, with Temple and Chase fighting together yards behind. Then they were crossing the line and the last lap had begun.
The voices of the judges announcing the fact were drowned in the shouts of entreaty and encouragement that broke from the spectators.
“There’s only Dick left!” wailed Harry. “Chase is out of it entirely! If Dick doesn’t win we’ll lose! Dick! Dick! Run! You’ve got to win, Dick!”
But Harry’s frantic entreaty was lost in the babel of sound and the runners took the turn, clinging closer to the inner rim of the cinder track. Around the curve they went, Parish, Connor, Dick, one close behind the other, heads up, elbows in, strides matched.
So far Dick had stood the strain well, but now the work was beginning to tell on him. Breathing was getting difficult, his knees began to feel a little bit uncertain and his head displayed a tendency to drop back. He realized that to win better than second place was almost out of the question. Both Connor and Parish were experienced runners, were conducting the race according to some plan settled upon between them and were not going to let their adversary pass if it was possible to prevent it. And yet if Ferry Hill was to win the meet it was absolutely necessary for him to reach the tape ahead of the others. If he came in second and Chase, by good luck, came in fourth it would give them four points, just enough to lose by one! So it was first place or nothing—and Dick began to think it would be nothing.
He believed that somewhere on the back-stretch Parish would let Connor by and at the same time try to block the enemy. Connor would then hit up the pace, Parish would follow if he could and if not would lag and make it necessary for Dick to run outside of him; and in the last two hundred yards of the mile every effort, no matter how slight, counts. The idea of risking all on a spurt, passing both opponents and then trying to keep the lead to the tape occurred to him, but was relinquished. He believed that he had enough strength left for a sprint at the finish, but he doubted his ability to make the pace for the rest of the distance.
The one encouraging thought that can come to one during a hard race is that your opponent is probably just as tired and just as worried as you are. And as Dick followed the others around the turn into the back-stretch he made the most of that thought. If his own breath came in scorching gasps from tired lungs so must that of Connor and Parish; if his own legs ached, so must theirs; if he was at his wits’ end how to get by them, they were at their wits’ end how to prevent him.
From across the field came the cheers of the watchers, but he was scarcely aware of them. His whole mind was on the race, and he watched Connor as a cat watches a mouse. For him the only sounds were the hard breathing of the runners and the crunch of the cinders under foot. A hundred yards behind, although he didn’t know it, Temple and Chase had finished their battle and the former had won; Chase, with head thrown back, was following gamely but hopelessly, already out of the race.
Yard by yard the back-stretch was conquered. The curve was already at hand and still Dick’s opponents made no move. The three ran steadily on, stride for stride. Perhaps they were waiting for him to try and pass, hoping he would kill himself in a useless attempt to take the lead. Well, he’d fool them! Then the wooden rim at his left began to curve, and suddenly Connor had slipped from his place with a gasping warning to Parish and had taken the lead. Dick went after him, but as soon as he had drawn alongside of Parish that youth, watching for him, quickly closed up behind Connor. Dick must either drop back to third place again or run on the outside, covering more ground on the turn than the enemy. Well, he was probably beaten anyway, and so he’d stay where he was. Perhaps he could cheat Parish out of second place. So around the turn they went, Connor hugging the pole in the lead, Parish right behind him and Dick at his elbow. And now they were on the home-stretch with the tape and the little knot of judges and timers scarcely sixty yards away.
But what a distance sixty yards is when seventeen hundred have gone before it! And what a deal may happen in that little stretch of cinder path! The stand was almost deserted and the spectators were lined along the track almost from the corner to a point beyond the finish, so that the runners came on through a lane of gesticulating arms, waving flags and caps and frantic noise.
Suddenly Connor’s head tipped back a little. Dick, watching, saw and realized that the last struggle had begun. With a gasp for breath to carry him on, he began his sprint at the same moment that Connor strove to draw away. A dozen strides and Parish was no longer beside him. A dozen more and he was almost even with the Hammond crack. But now his breath threatened to go back on him utterly at every aching gasp and his legs weighed hundreds of pounds. The hope of victory, born suddenly back there by the turn, withered under the knowledge of defeat.
Then into his range of vision, standing sharply out against the confusion of dark figures lining the track to the right, leaped a girl in a white dress, a small, slim form with the reddest of hair and a pale, entreating face. And in the moment that he saw her her hand shot out toward him waving a little slip of white paper and beckoning him on. And in the instant he remembered that there was more in this than a victory over Hammond; that on his winning or losing depended the success of the F. H. S. I. S.! To win meant a new dormitory for the school; to lose—But he wasn’t going to lose now!
“‘And something else, too!’”
Stride! Stride! Gasp! Gasp! He had an idea that Connor had vanished into thin air; at least he was no longer at his elbow! Faces swept by like strange blurs. The line was in front of him, half a dozen yards away. He wondered why nobody spoke, why everything was so still; then awoke to the knowledge that the shouting was deafening. Cries for “Ferry Hill! Ferry Hill!” for “Hammond! Hammond!” rent the air. Another stride—another—and then somebody got in his way and he couldn’t stop and so tumbled over into somebody’s arms.
He had a dim idea that he was being dragged across the cinders. Then he had no ideas at all for a minute. When he got a good, full hold on his faculties again he opened his eyes to find Chub and Roy beside him. He smiled weakly.
“Did I—win?” he gasped.
“Two yards to the good!” said Chub. “We’ve won the meet, Dick, by a point: 66½ to 65½!”
“Yes,” cried another voice, “and something else, too! Look!”
Harry’s face, flushed, excited and radiant, bent over him as she held a little slip of white paper before his eyes. Dick looked and read with dizzy eyes:
County National Bank of New York City.
Pay to the order of Tom, Dick, and Harriet........ Twenty-nine Thousand Three Hundred and Sixty and 20/100 Dollars.
David Kearney.
THE END