Just what followed Bert never clearly remembered. A hurricane of cheers, a sea of spectators, Dick’s face white as chalk, Reddy’s like a flame of fire. Then the jubilant trainer thrust a way through the howling mob and led him to his dressing room. An immense fatigue was on him. His heart wanted to come out of his body and his legs weighed a ton. But deep down in his consciousness was a measureless content. He had won. Again the dear old college had pinned its faith to him and again her colors had been the first to cross the line.

A long cooling-out process followed, and then came the bath and rub-down. The strain had been enormous, but his vitality reacted quickly, and under Reddy’s skillful ministrations he was soon himself again.

It was a jolly party that took the special train of the Blues back to college. More than their share of the events had fallen to them. Drake, Axtell, Hinchman, Martin and Bert were the center of a hilarious group, who kept demanding at short intervals “who was all right” and answering the questions themselves by shouting the names of their victorious athletes. Not since that memorable day when Bert’s fadeaway ball had won the pennant had their cup of satisfaction been so full to overflowing.

The lion’s share of the applause naturally fell to Bert, not only because the Marathon was more important than any other feature, but on account of the accident that had come so near to ruining his hopes and which he had so gallantly retrieved.

“Gee, Bert,” said Dick, “I can’t tell you how I felt when I saw you go down in that mix-up. Just when you were getting ready to make your run, too. I’d been studying your gait right along and I knew by the way you were going that you had plenty in reserve. I was counting the race already won. But when you went into that tangle of legs and arms, I figured that it was all up with us.”

“I thought so myself,” answered Bert, “that is, as soon as I could think anything. At first my head went round like a top, and for a second or two I didn’t know where I was. Then I saw the heels of the fellows way up in front and I made up my mind that they should see mine.”

“And they did all right,” chuckled Drake, “but it was a hundred to one shot that they wouldn’t. That run of yours was the pluckiest thing I ever saw, as well as the speediest. Like the ‘Charge of the Light Brigade,’ it sure was a forlorn hope.”

“Well,” said Bert, “it’s like baseball. The game’s never over until the last man is out in the ninth inning, no matter how far the other fellows may be ahead. As it was, I only got there by the narrowest of squeaks. That winged-foot fellow put up a nervy fight. By the way, how is Brady? I hope he wasn’t hurt by the tumble.”

“Oh, he’s all right,” answered Axtell. “He scraped a big patch of skin off his thigh, but he came staggering along and finished among the first ten. The showing he made was good enough to guarantee that he’ll be taken along with the rest of us.”

But just then Reddy the tyrant—a very good-natured tyrant at present—intervened, and although they protested that they were too excited to sleep, shooed them off to their berths.

“Tell that to the marines,” he grinned. “Ye’ll be asleep before your head fairly touches the pillow.” And, as usual in things physical, Reddy was right.

The next few weeks were exceedingly busy ones. Examinations were coming on and Bert was up to his eyes in work. He had never let sport interfere with his studies and his standing in the class room had been as high as his reputation on the track. Then there were the countless odds and ends to be attended to that always accumulate at the end of the college year. Every day, without fail, Reddy put him through his paces, having in mind the forthcoming ocean voyage when regular training would be difficult and limited.

Tom in the meantime had returned, still bearing some traces of his terrible ordeal in the mountains. The poison had been eliminated from his system, thanks to the doctor’s skill and the careful oversight of Mr. Hollis, but he was not yet his former self. It had been decided that a sea trip was the one thing needed to bring about his entire restoration to health. Dick had no such excuse, but he had put it up to his parents with so much force that he simply must see the Olympics that they had at last consented. By dint of much correspondence and influence exerted in the right quarters, they had been able to arrange for passage on the same steamer that was to convey Bert and the rest of the Olympic team. So that the “Three Guardsmen,” as they had been dubbed because they were always together, rejoiced at the prospect of a summer abroad under these rare conditions. And there were no happier young fellows than they in America on that memorable day when they went over the gang-plank of the steamer that was to carry them and their fortunes.

The Northland had been specially chartered for the occasion. The contestants alone numbered nearly two hundred, and when to these were added trainers, rubbers, reporters, officials and favored friends, this figure was more than doubled. The Olympic Committee had done things in lavish style, and the funds contributed by lovers of sport all over the country had given them abundance of means. They had learned from previous experience the disadvantages of having the athletes go over on the regular liners. The rich food of the ship’s tables, the formality that had to be observed, the class distinctions of first, second and third cabins and the difficulty of keeping in condition had wrecked or lessened the chances of more than one promising candidate.

Now, with the vessel absolutely under their own control, subject of course to the captain and officers, all these troubles disappeared. There were no cabin distinctions and all were on the same level. The food, while of course of the very best quality and wholesome and abundant, was prepared with a special view to the needs of the athletes. There was no fixed schedule for the trip, and therefore no danger of overspeeding in order to reach port on time. Snobbishness and pretense were altogether absent. All were enthusiasts on athletics, all keenly interested in the coming games, and the healthy freemasonry of sport welded them into one great family. The boys had not been on board an hour before they felt perfectly at home. At every turn they met some one whom they knew more or less well from having already met them in competition. There was Brady and Thornton and Casey, the little Irishman; and even the Indian, who had given Bert so much trouble to beat him, so far unbent from his usual gravity as to grin a welcome to his conqueror. The winged-foot man, Hallowell, shook hands cordially with a grip that bore no malice.

“The best man won that day,” he smiled, “but I’m from Missouri and you’ll have to show me that you can do it again.”

“Your turn next,” laughed Bert. “That was simply my lucky day.”

“I think next time,” continued Hallowell, “in addition to the winged-foot emblem, I’d better carry a rabbit’s foot.”

“Don’t handicap me that way,” said Bert, in mock alarm. “Why rob me altogether of hope?”

“Well,” concluded Hallowell, “as long as America wins, it doesn’t matter much which one of us ‘brings home the bacon.’”

“Right you are,” rejoined Bert, heartily.

And this spirit prevailed everywhere. Rivalry was keen, but it was not bitter. There was no malice or meanness about it. Each could admire and applaud the prowess of a rival. Naturally every one wanted to win, but above the personal feeling rose the national. As long as America won, nothing else mattered very much. “Old Glory” floated from the stem and stern of the great steamer. It floated also in their hearts.

The Northland had been put in the Committee’s hands some weeks previous to the time of sailing, and in that brief period they had worked wonders. The ship had been transformed into an immense gymnasium. It was intended that regular practice should be indulged in every day of the trip when the weather permitted. Of course, as “all signs fail in dry weather,” so all exercise would have to be suspended in stormy weather. But at that time of the year storms were infrequent on the Atlantic, and it was probable that there would be little loss of time on that account.

On the upper deck the Committee had built a cork track three hundred feet long and wide enough for two men to run abreast. This was for the use chiefly of the sprinters, although all found it valuable for limbering up, and even the milers and long-distance men could use it to advantage. The deck itself was a fifth of a mile in circumference and here the Marathon men took their practice. It was planned that there should be two sessions every day, the first at ten in the morning and the second at three in the afternoon.

But running was not allowed to eclipse the other features. The rifle and revolver men had a special gallery where they practised steadily. The bicycle team were provided with machines lashed securely to the stanchions of the vessel. Here they pedaled away religiously, working like beavers yet never getting anywhere. But the practice itself was almost as good as though the miles were actually spinning away behind them. The tennis men had a backstop ten feet high and an imaginary court where they practiced what strokes they could. The fencing team had not been overlooked, and especially well-lighted quarters had been assigned to them.

For the swimmers there was a canvas tank, replenished daily, fifteen feet long and five wide. A belt about the swimmer’s waist was tied to a rope above that held him in the center of the tank. So that while, like the bicycle team, getting nowhere, they could yet go through the motions and keep in perfect condition.

The throwers of the discus and the hammer were naturally at some disadvantage. There was not enough open space anywhere in the ship for them to try out their specialties. But they were not to be wholly denied. A section of the rail at the stern of the ship was removed, and fastening the discus or hammer to a rope, they cast it out over the waves as far as they could and then drew it back, repeating the feat as often as their trainers deemed best.

Then, in addition to these special arrangements, there were the general ones in which all took part, such as chinning the bar, skipping the rope and passing the medicine ball. The entire schedule was a tribute to the ingenuity and thoroughness of the Committee. In the period devoted to practice every chink of time was filled up and, as Dick put it, “no guilty minute was permitted to escape.”

But work had no terrors for these husky youth. It was by dint of hard work that they had reached their present position in the athletic world, and now, with the greatest possible prize in view, they were in no mood to let up. Some, in fact, had been worrying over the prospect of a break in training during the voyage and they were delighted to find that their fears were groundless.

It is safe to say that no one ship since the world began had carried so much brawn and skill and speed as did the Northland. It carried more—the faith and hope and pride of the American people. And when, the next day, with whistles blowing and flags flying and bands playing and crowds cheering, she passed down the bay and stood out to sea, none doubted that the bronzed athletes she bore would return crowned with the laurels of victory.