Two days of uneasiness and discussion, and the momentous Saturday was at hand. The indifference which Melvin felt at the beginning of the season, when the responsibilities of the management were loaded upon his shoulders, had long since vanished. He had begun with it as a task, as a burden to be borne because he could bear it better than any one else; he had put into it the best of his energy and the best of his thought, he had worried and sacrificed and labored for the cause. It seemed to him now almost as if the team were his, struggling for him and for the school. His anxiety could not have been greater if his own future happiness and the welfare of the school had really been dependent on the success of the team.

From the moment the news was received that the protest had been rejected, Dickinson ceased to be a mere ornament to the team and became a real captain. There was fire in him now, and determination and genuine enthusiasm. His whole attitude was one of confidence and of conscious power, that lifted the weakest man in the squad out of his humiliating sense of incapacity, and made him feel that he was one of a strong company led by a strong man, and himself capable of greater things than he had ever yet accomplished.

In the mass-meeting of the school the night before the games, when the boys gathered in loyal force to give their team a “send-off” for the morrow, nothing that was said by student or graduate or friend stirred such response in the hearts of the school as the short, plain, virile exhortation of the captain.

And no athletes need personal inspiration as do the members of a track team. The football player stands shoulder to shoulder with his fellows, the strong helps the weak and shares with him the glory of victory. The baseball score may show hits and errors against the same member of a winning team. The runner, on the other hand, enters the field alone, fights his brief battle unaided, and either fails his team wholly or makes an individual contribution to its success; he cannot be pushed on to victory by the efforts of another.

The wind was easterly on Saturday, bringing in from the sea a heavy thickness of atmosphere, yet with barely sufficient vitality to move the leaves. The air chilled like a March fog.

“What do you think of it?” asked Melvin, as he met Dickinson at breakfast.

“The weather? It’s bad on the nerves, but worse for the Hillburyites, who aren’t used to it as we are. I don’t mind it myself. All I ask is that we have no wind to buck against, and no rain.”

“It’s hard on the jumpers. When the air is cold and heavy, you can’t put any force into your spring.”

“Weather doesn’t influence me as much as other conditions do,” said Varrell. “I find it a great deal easier to jump when there’s a big, eager crowd, and the excitement runs high.”

“You’ll have excitement enough, if that’s all you want,” said Dick, grimly. “This Hillbury team is coming up here to win. I happen to know that they’re counting on some of the very events that we’ve been reckoning as surely ours. If we beat Hillbury to-day, we shall have to make new records to do it.”

“Let’s have the new records, then, by all means,” said Varrell, looking across the table at the silent captain.

On the way to chapel Tompkins joined them. “Good speech you made last night, Jimmy,” said the pitcher, “better than anything I heard at the Prize Speaking.”

Dickinson nodded in acknowledgment of the compliment.

“You can’t fail us after that speech,” continued Tompkins. “I know a couple of fellows in Hillbury, and they brag of Ropes and Lary like an agent selling a gold mine. Don’t let them do you up.”

“They won’t unless they’re better men. If they are, we want them to win.”

“Not exactly,” returned Tompkins. “Let the best team win, of course, only make sure we don’t lose.”

Melvin snorted in ridicule. “You crazy cowboy! How can we help losing if the best team is Hillbury, and Hillbury wins? You don’t mean that we’re to beat them dishonestly?”

“My meaning is too deep for gladiatorial brains like yours,” said Tommy, edging off. “I’ll explain later.”

The Hillburyites came by a special train in solid phalanx, happy and hopeful. The year’s records were in their favor by a considerable margin. Dickinson and Curtis were the only men really feared, for Todd they considered as good as beaten, and the rest of the Seaton team, while allowed a certain number of points in accordance with the general principle of chance, were assessed at a low valuation.

At half-past two the Seaton bleachers, packed to their full capacity, were bellowing their welcome to the hundred-yards men, who had just appeared at the head of the stretch. Lary, the Hillbury champion, and Dickinson were side by side,—the former a short, solid, muscular figure, quick in every motion, the latter tall and lithe, and deliberate even to slowness. Melvin watched the preparations with an unexpected fear creeping into his heart. Was this solid, business-like person with the knotty legs and confident manner to steal a start on the Seaton captain and keep ahead to the finish? Crack! sounded the pistol and away went the men, rising from the crouching position with an instantaneous leap and throwing themselves forward into their strides.

It was true! Lary was ahead at the start by five yards, his short-legs flashing over the unscarred surface of the track as the wings of a buzzing insect beat the air,—behind him Dickinson and Travers, and behind still farther the second Hillbury runner, who did not count in the score. For five seconds the three came on with the same apparent interval, then number two crept away from number three and up toward number one. Eight seconds, nine, ten, the stop-watches registered. A fraction more and the short sprinter was at the tape, Dickinson but six inches behind, and Travers in third place!

How the visitors howled at this, the first augury of the day’s success! The great Dickinson beaten in the very first race! The announcer’s big megaphone roared forth the record,—it equalled the best of either school. The points gained—Hillbury five, Seaton three—were chalked on the board; and the crowd, like a hungry dog who waits greedily for a second piece of meat, turned expectant to the next event.

The half-mile was conceded to Willbur of Hillbury. In the Seaton estimates, however, Maine of Seaton had been counted on to win second place and Faxon third. Willbur ran a beautiful race that set the Hillburyites wild with pride, establishing a new dual record; but unfortunately for Seaton, the second man, who was twenty yards behind, proved to be, not Maine, but Towle of Hillbury, while Maine made a very poor third. The score went up—Hillbury twelve, Seaton four—and the hearts of the Seatonians down. The beginning was bad.

Meantime the shot-put, which had been started with the first run, was drawing near its end. Here at last was encouragement for the home team, for every prize fell to the wearer of a red S. Curtis was ahead as usual, with Farlow, a big two hundred pounder, second, and Trapp third.

“We’ve evened it up now, Toddy,” cried Melvin, joyfully, as the men came out for the high hurdles. “We want seven points here, you know.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Todd; “that’s all any one can do. That Rawson may beat me, after all. They say he can do it in seventeen flat.”

“Nonsense!” retorted Melvin. “Go in and beat him.”

The start was in the Hillbury man’s favor. Rawson flew down the stretch, knocking over half his hurdles in his course, going like a torpedo boat in a rough sea. Just behind him came Todd, taking three swift strides between hurdles and rising like a bird swooping up in its flight. They seemed neck and neck at the last obstacle, but here Rawson struck hard and lost his stride, and Todd was easily first at the finish. Smith of Seaton was third, making the score Hillbury fourteen, Seaton eighteen.

“Now’s your chance for revenge,” said Curtis, as Dickinson started forth for the two-twenty. “Show those fellows what you can do, when you really have room to get headway. And we shouldn’t object to a new record, you know.”

The captain smiled grimly. “I shall be satisfied to win.”

Dickinson took his place with Travers and Ropes and Lary, at the starting line where the curve of the track began. They were a well-tested quartet. Lary was fresh from his victory in the hundred; Travers had prizes from contests of previous years; Ropes was a new man, hailed by the Hillbury coachers as a coming champion. To Dickinson it seemed the race of his life, so eager was he to atone for the disappointment he had given his schoolmates in his first race.

The runners got off in pairs, Travers and Lary ahead; Ropes and Dickinson side by side, gathering headway in the rear. Around the curve it seemed that Travers was ahead, but as the runners struck the straightaway, they were seen to tail out into a diagonal line across the track, Lary leading, then Travers, then Ropes, and Dickinson last. The Hillburyites, seeing the dreaded champion in the rear, emitted an incoherent howl of exultation.

“Will you look at that!” cried Curtis, who stood by Melvin, near the finish line. “Outclassed, as sure as guns!”

“No! No! Watch it out!” cried Dick, in answer. Down the track swept the line of white-clad, shaking, struggling figures. When it passed the Seaton benches Dick could see the excited spectators throw up their arms, could hear the yells, and guess that the long-legs were putting the ground behind them. A moment more, and he knew that the struggle was between Ropes and Dickinson for the lead; and then, as the white figures flashed by, he saw that the racers had tailed out again in the reverse order, Dickinson, Ropes, Travers, and Lary. And so the judges reported them in the finish. Score, Seaton twenty-four, Hillbury sixteen.

As the mile runners came out Melvin had word that the captain wished to see him. He found Dickinson in the dressing rooms, under the hands of the rubber.

“That was splendid, old man, perfectly splendid!” began the manager.

Dickinson checked him: “I didn’t bring you in here to tell me that stuff. It’s something serious. Do you know we’re not doing well? I don’t blame any one, of course. We’ve won certain points, but there are those field events at the end of the list that we aren’t at all sure of. We must get down to them with a good margin, or we’ll be beaten.”

Dick nodded silently. The high jump was to be the last event; he did not need to be told that his chance of winning this was very problematical.

“Now, I’m entered for the broad jump,” said the captain. “I put my name down because it did no harm to have it there, and occasionally, you know, I’ve made a good jump. I’m wondering if I hadn’t better go in and try two or three times, on the chance of adding a point or two to the score.”

“But the four-forty?” exclaimed Melvin. “That comes right after.”

“That’s the point. Is there any risk? Their best man in the quarter is Ropes, but I’ve run past him once to-day and can do it again. I don’t feel exhausted at all, and you know the quarter is my run. I have no confidence that Brown will do anything at all in the broad jump, and Hillbury has two good jumpers at least. Shall I take the risk of hurting myself for the chance of winning a couple of points?”

“Broad jumpers out!” sounded the official warning at the door of the quarters.

“I think I’ll do it,” decided Dickinson, as Melvin hesitated.

The Hillburyites were cheering when the jumpers came out; the mile had yielded Hillbury five points and Seaton three.

“Still six ahead!” said Melvin, looking at the board.

Dickinson took one jump—nineteen feet six; then one more—twenty feet two inches; and went back to the house to have his ankle rubbed again. He did not learn until he came out for the quarter some time later, that he had won second prize, while Brown had made nothing at all. Hillbury had taken first and third.

“Twenty-seven to twenty-nine, old man!” whispered Curtis, as Todd sallied forth for the low hurdles. “They’re crawling up. Discourage them, can’t you?”

“I don’t know,” responded Todd, quietly. “I’m not afraid of Rawson, but Harding is another proposition. I can’t do the impossible.”

The hammer-throwing was started at the same time; and Curtis after his first throw found himself pitted against such superior men that his whole attention was concentrated on the new and unpleasant problem of beating men who were better than himself. He did see the race, for the hammer men interrupted their contest a minute to watch the hurdlers; but about all his absorbed mind took in, as the runners flew by, was a vision of two figures with faces set in a wild, harsh grimace, one bearing blue and the other red letters on his breast, skimming the hurdles with identical stride, like horses trotting in span, and behind again more blue letters and more red. There was a tremendous howling in both camps, for the race was close to the finish, and each side felt confidence in its own champion. Soon, however, Hillbury ceased to cheer, while Seaton broke out afresh, and Curtis knew that Todd had won.

The big football player went back to his post, determined not to fail his trusting schoolmates. Todd had won five points in the race just finished, and Hillbury three. The score was now Hillbury thirty, Seaton thirty-four; but of the three events left, only one, the quarter, could be counted safely Seaton’s, and the other two might yield a big addition to the Hillbury score. It was in the present event that the games must be won. Eager and fearful, he took his fourth and fifth trials. Still behind! Desperate with disappointment, poor Curtis grasped his hammer for the last time, swung it wildly round, and, with all the strength of his body concentrated in one final, convulsive jerk, sent it flying through the air.

“Too high!” he groaned, as the measurers stretched their tape over the ground. “I’m done for.” And so it was. His best throw had given him barely third place. The score now showed a balance for Hillbury of thirty-seven to thirty-five.

Discouraged as they were, the Seatonian cheerers went wild again as Dickinson’s tall, familiar form emerged once more upon the track. Not a soul among them doubted for a moment that he would win the race. The Hillburyites themselves had always passed over the event in their most optimistic calculations. Their chances seemed even less now, for Ropes had already failed them, and Willbur had run one hard race in record-making time, and could not be in condition to meet the champion. Dickinson himself gave no attention to his rivals; he started at his own pace, a little below his maximum, but rapid enough to be discouraging to the other contestants, and went fast and hard, as if he delighted in the speed, and could run the more easily the faster the pace. The runners were close together around the curve; on the back stretch Willbur forged ahead; at the end of the stretch Dickinson had barely caught him, and the two swayed into the curve with the Hillbury man on the inside, flying with a sprinter’s gait, with every muscle strained, and the strength of every heart-beat thrown recklessly into his speed. In a mass the spectators, Seaton and Hillbury, rose to their feet, and in a spontaneous, discordant howl, that defied the control of leaders, hurled encouragement and applause at the struggling pair. Around the curve the blue still gained; at the opening of the straightaway, still led by two yards. Then, as the long strides began to creep up behind him, the plucky half-miler’s pace suddenly slackened; he staggered and fell his length upon the track. While kindly arms lifted him and bore him away, the tall Seatonian swept on to the finish, and four seconds later Ropes and Watson came trailing in.

There was furious cheering when the figures of the new record appeared on the board,—cheering, too, that warms the heart as well as deafens the ears, for Seaton cheered first for their captain and then for Willbur, whose desperate attempt had driven Dickinson to his best; and Hillbury cheered Willbur and then Dickinson. Both sides felt the better for this mutual politeness; but the freshly posted score, Hillbury thirty-nine, Seaton forty-one, and the advent of the pole-vaulters, soon brought the eager partisans back to a consciousness of their rivalry.

The bar went up by the slow, tiresome intervals familiar to spectators of such games,—nine feet three, nine feet eight, nine feet nine. At ten feet Varrell and Phillippe of Hillbury alone remained in the contest, a Hillbury man having gained third place. Both men vaulted ten feet two, but at ten three Varrell failed, and Phillippe managed to wriggle over. Hillbury had added six points to her score, making forty-five to Seaton’s forty-three.

And now for the final contest to determine whether Hillbury was to keep the lead to the end! There was a sober conference at the Seaton quarters as Dick and Benson came forth. It was short, for there was really nothing to say. Seaton must gain first place to tie,—first and another to win. McGee of Hillbury had a record of five feet eight and a half; Dick had never jumped more than five feet seven. The odds were against him and against Seaton. If he lost, it would be the critical event which he was losing, and the splendid work of Todd and Dickinson and others would go for nothing.

“Keep up your courage, Dicky, my boy,” whispered Curtis. “You’ve beaten him once about the protest; you can do him up again. He’s afraid of you, don’t forget that! Keep ahead of him and he’ll go to pieces.”

That this was foolish talk, Dick knew well, but in some way it gave him heart, and the strong cheering from Seaton benches steadied him. He went over the lower heights with ease, McGee as successfully, though with less grace. At five four Dick was the only Seaton man left in the contest, while there were still two contestants wearing the blue. At five five he and McGee were alone. The bar now went up half an inch at a time, and as often as Melvin cleared the new height a shout of relief would rise from the Seaton benches, echoed again by Hillbury when McGee duplicated the jump. At five feet seven McGee failed, but succeeded the second time. At five seven and a half Melvin also failed at first, but cleared on a second trial, and McGee wriggled over, touching the bar, but luckily not knocking it off. He fell in a heap in the pit of soft earth behind the uprights, but was up again in a moment, seemingly unhurt.

The bar was placed at five feet eight.

“If he fails on that, we’re done for,” said Curtis in Todd’s ear; “and he can’t do it; it’s beyond him.”

“Stop your croaking!” retorted Todd. “I say he can.”

Melvin paced his distance in absolute silence. The leaders of the cheering had abandoned their duties, and like the rest of the eager crowd were intent on the jumper, their hearts in sympathy leaping with him.

And while the crowd watched his every motion, Melvin himself saw nothing but the bar ahead of him with the white handkerchief upon it, and the height and the distance, and the infinite desirability of clearing the white handkerchief and the bar without moving them from their resting-place. A short, nervous run, with his eyes fixed on the bar; a crouch like that of the panther springing for its prey; and up he floated and over the white square as if five feet eight were an easy stint, and his legs adjusted themselves automatically to the bar.

That jump settled the contests, for McGee failed three times and was out; and the score remained a tie. Seatonians and Hillburyites alike sent forth victorious yells, and then, lapsing into silence, went their respective ways, wondering whether they were really victors or vanquished. And only such as had prizes in their hands were sure that the day had not gone against them.

“Hi, Dick!” yelled Tompkins from the end of the corridor, as Melvin came upstairs to his room. “You did it, after all!”

“We did and we didn’t,” answered Dick, lingering in his doorway. “Perhaps we ought to be satisfied, for it seems to me that the Hillbury team was really the better one.”

“Then I was right.”

“About what?” asked Dick, whose mind was oblivious to all the happenings of the day except those of the last few hours.

“Why, about what I said this morning. Hillbury was the better team, and yet you didn’t lose.”

“That’s a fact,” said Dick, his face breaking into a smile.

“The next time don’t call a man crazy just because he comes from Montana,” pursued Tompkins, with an air of seriousness. “He may have a prophetic vision.”