The boys were all up early on the day when the Olympic games were to begin. They were thrilling with excitement like that of young soldiers on the verge of their first battle. Here at last was the goal of their ambition, the day they had looked forward to through weary months of effort, the end of their journey from one continent to another, the final port after the long voyage overseas. Here they were to pit themselves against the best the world could offer. From here the cable was to flash to waiting friends at home the news of victory or defeat. And they solemnly vowed it should not be defeat.

Berlin was awake, too. The great city, rising like a giant refreshed after sleep, was full of stir and movement. The very air seemed electrified with a sense of something great impending. From early dawn the streets had resounded with bugle calls, as the troops that were to take part in the great review preceding the games took up their position. Staff officers in their gorgeous uniforms were dashing to and fro, and the pavements echoed back the measured tread of the infantry and the clatter of the cavalry. Flags and bunting fluttered everywhere. Excursion trains brought in enormous crowds from other cities to swell the swarming population of the capital. A general holiday had been proclaimed and all Berlin was out of doors.

And these vast crowds were swayed not only by enthusiasm but by hope. At last the German eagle was to have a chance to scream. The Fatherland had not fared any too well at previous Olympic meets. The first prizes that had fallen to German athletes had been few and far between. It was not that they lacked pluck and brawn. This they had in plenty. But they had not made a specialty of field and track events and they had been forced to stand aside and see England and America make almost a clean sweep at every meet.

But in the four years that had elapsed since the last games they had thrown themselves into the strife with all the thoroughness and earnestness that were their national characteristics. Not if they could help it would they fail of winning in their own capital with the whole world looking on. Sport had become a national craze, and training, like everything else with the Germans, had been reduced to a science.

The Emperor himself had rushed into the movement with his well-known dash and vigor. He was determined that “where Germany sat should be the head of the table.” He had issued orders to his army officers that whenever they espied in the ranks a promising candidate he should be given every opportunity for development; and in more than one case he had relieved him altogether from military service in order that he might devote himself to his specialty. He had hung up costly trophies to be battled for and had attended many of the meets in person. His own son, Prince Friedrich Wilhelm, was a winner in the elimination sprints, and would be one of the Olympic contenders. Everywhere there was a spirit of deadly earnestness such as had brought Germany to the fore in so many fields of learning and music and commerce. There were rumors flying about of marvelous records made in practice, of wonderful “phenoms” to be uncovered when the time came. And Reddy voiced what was coming to be a general opinion in the American quarters, that “It’s them blamed Dutchmen we’ve got to beat.”

Not that this scared Uncle Sam’s boys in the slightest degree. They sniffed the battle from afar like young war horses, and the prospect of stiff competition only added zest to the coming strife. The fiercer the struggle the more glorious the victory. As Bert put it: “They didn’t want a procession; they wanted a race.” All foes looked alike to them and they faced the issue with a buoyant confidence that was not mere bravado, but based on indomitable courage and self-reliance. If they were beaten—and it stood to reason that in some events they would be—their opponents in every case would have to earn the victory and they would surely know they had been in a fight.

The fight idea was emphasized by the great military review that passed before the Emperor. The crack regiments of the finest army in Europe, marching with the precision of clockwork, made up a parade miles in length. Every arm of the service was represented—the grim Krupp artillery rumbling along like thunder, the solid ranks of the infantry moving as one man, the splendid Uhlans and Hussars, superbly mounted. It was a shrewd move on the part of the Emperor—whom Dick described as “the best advertising man in Europe”—thus to impress visitors from all parts of the world with the martial pomp and power of the German Empire. While these were to be games of friendly rivalry, and admitting that “Peace hath its victories no less renowned than War,” he figured that it would do no harm to give a quiet hint that, whether in peace or war, the Fatherland was prepared to meet all comers. And the shower of cheers that greeted the troops along the line of march attested the pride felt in their army by the entire nation.

After the review came luncheon, at which the Kaiser entertained the Committeemen of the various nations, and shortly afterward the tide set in toward the Stadium, where the opening exercises were to be held that afternoon.

A murmur of admiration rose from the spectators as they poured in the gates of the magnificent structure. The builders had fairly outdone themselves. It was a crystallized dream. The most brilliant architects in Germany had been summoned to its construction and given a free hand in the matter of expense. As a result, they had erected the finest building in the world designed for athletic sports. Arranged in the form of an ellipse, it extended like a giant horseshoe over fifty acres. The arena itself was open to the sky, but the seats, rising tier on tier in endless rows, were under cover. The massive walls, made of granite, were adorned with statues of German heroes, and high over all towered a colossal figure of Germania. The entrances were flanked by mighty towers and beneath the seats was an enormous corridor with dressing rooms, shower baths and every appliance for the comfort of the athletes. In the center of the vast arena was the field for the throwing and jumping competitions, and circling this was the running track for the racers. Nothing had been overlooked, nothing neglected. The builders had been able to profit by the mistakes or omissions of other nations where meets had been held and they had reared a structure that was the “last word” for beauty and utility.

Through every entrance in one unending stream poured the crowds of spectators. Thousands upon thousands, they packed the tiers of seats until they overflowed. And still they kept coming.

The Emperor sat in the royal box, surrounded by his family and a glittering staff. At a given signal the bands started up the “Wacht am Rhein.” The vast multitude rose to their feet and stood with uncovered heads. Then the choral societies took up the famous hymn, “A Strong Fortress Is Our God.” The noble music swept over the field and stirred all German hearts with deep emotion.

Then from the pavilions, each delegation carrying its national flag, came the athletes, four thousand in number. They marched in serried ranks down the field and lined up in front of the royal enclosure. Bronzed, supple, straight as arrows, they made a magnificent picture. The Crown Prince introduced them in a body to his father in a few well-chosen words, and the Emperor made one of his characteristic speeches in reply. At its conclusion he waved his hand, the ranks disbanded, a hurricane of cheers rent the air, and the greatest of Olympic meets was on.

For ten days the struggle went on with varying fortunes. Every event was fiercely contested. Nothing could be counted on certainly in advance. Many “good things” went wrong, while others who had only been supposed to have an outside chance carried off the prize. With every day that passed, it became more evident, as the pendulum swung from side to side, that the result would be in doubt almost to the last. They fought like wildcats, ran like deer and held on like bulldogs. It was a “fight for keeps” from start to finish.

In the rifle and revolver competitions, the Americans swept the boards. At every range and every target they were invincible. Crack shots from all over Europe tried in vain to rival their scores. They were from the land of Davy Crockett and there was nothing left for their opponents but to follow the example of the historic coon and “come down.”

In the hundred yard dash, the Americans ran one, two, three. There was a separate lane for each runner so that no one could interfere with another. The timing was by electricity and did away with any possibility of mistake. The crack of the pistol started the watch and the breaking of the tape at the finish stopped it. The system did away with all disputes and helped immensely in promoting the friendly feeling that prevailed throughout the games.

Five points were given to the winner in each event, three to the second and one to the third. So that no matter which nation won the first, another might win the second or third or both, and thus keep within striking distance in the general score.

From the first day, the American score began to climb. But the Germans and Swedes and English were climbing, too, and it became clear that it was not to be, as in previous meets, a walkover for the Stars and Stripes.

In the field and track events—what we understand in this country by athletics—the Americans were vastly superior. The broad jump was theirs, the pole vaulting, the hurdles, the four hundred metres and fifteen hundred metres runs. Drake won the discus throw and Snyder hurled the hammer further than it had ever gone before.

But there were other features in which we had but few representatives, and in some none at all. The archery shooting went to England. The javelin casting with both hands was won by a gigantic Swede. The horsemanship contest was carried off by officers of the German cavalry. France took the lead in fencing and Canada captured the long-distance walk. The horizontal bar work of the Germans was far and away the best, and her beef and brawn gathered in the tug of war. In the bicycle race Italy came in first, and we had to be content with second and third.

All these events swelled the foreigner’s score, and although America captured the Pentathlon and Decathlon for all round excellence, her lead on the tenth day was threatened by Germany and Sweden who were close behind.

“’Twill be no two to one this time,” Reddy grumbled. “’Tis glad I’ll be if we come out ahead by the skin of our teeth. We can’t seem to shake them fellers off. They hang on like leeches. I’m thinking, Wilson, ’twill be up to you to grab that Marathon, if we’re to go back to God’s country with colors flying and our heads held high.”

And Reddy was so true a prophet that when at last the momentous day came for the Marathon race, the German boar was gnashing his tusks at the American eagle. Only two points behind, he came plunging along, and victory for either depended on who won the Marathon.

The day before the race a package was delivered to Bert at his hotel. It bore the American postmark and he looked at it curiously. Within was a letter from Mr. Hollis and a little roll of bunting. Bert unrolled it. It was a torn and tattered American flag bearing the marks of flames and bullets. Across it had been stamped in golden letters: “We have met the enemy and they are ours.”

“I’ve had it a long time in my historical collection,” Mr. Hollis had written. “It’s the identical flag that Perry flew in the battle of Lake Erie. I’ve had his immortal words stamped on it. It saw one glorious victory won for America. I want it to see another. I loan this to you to tie in a sash about your waist when you run the Marathon. I’m banking on you, Bert, my boy. Go in and win.”

Bert touched it lovingly, reverently. A lump rose in his throat. “I’ll wear it,” he said, “and I’ll win with it.”