THE RELAY RACE

"It wasn't much of an argument," Scout Master Hibbs confessed to his relay team. "I simply suggested that we have each runner pass the little block to the next, rather than merely touch hands. Buck Claxton was the only one to raise any objection. He runs the last lap."

None of the four to whom he was speaking offered any comment. It was Jump Henderson who finally spoke; poor lame, disappointed Jump.

"Probably figured that if the race was close, he could get away before the third runner touched him," he offered.

"Oh, you're wrong there." The speaker was Rodman Cree. "I'm sure you're wrong. I know Buck. He isn't that sort at all. He wouldn't even think of taking an unfair advantage."

Bunny happened to be looking at Horace Hibbs, who, in turn, was staring fixedly at the new boy. "I suppose not," agreed the Scout Master, in a tone that was not wholly reassuring. "Anyhow, the use of the block makes trickery impossible; that's why it has been adopted so widely. Well, let's get over to the track."

There was something queer, Bunny felt, in the man's speech. It was as if he suspected somebody's honesty; not Buck Claxton's, perhaps, but—well, somebody's. He couldn't quite make it out.

But once Bunny was lined up beside the cinder track back of the Black Eagles' clubhouse, he forgot everything except the race itself. Everybody was cheering and yelling advice and encouragement; horns were tooting, and somebody who had brought a bell was clanging it madly. It was no time for solving puzzles.

Almost before he realized it, the race began. The crowd gasped suddenly and went absolutely still. A shot rang out; and around the queer, slanting track ran S. S., of the Scouts, and some tall, thin chap of the All-School team, whom Buck had been saving for just this event. Instead of the easy race S. S. had expected, Bunny could see that he was fully extended to hold his own. Side by side the two runners raced, neither able to wrest a yard's advantage from the other. The crowd seemed to have gone mad.

"Get ready, Specs," he heard Horace Hibbs say; and good old Specs, who ran the second relay, walked, trembling with excitement, to the starting line. Bunny puzzled gravely over his teammate's display of emotion and could not understand it, until he recalled that his turn would come presently, and that he must take up the race where Rodman Cree dropped it. His own cheeks reddened hotly, and his fists persisted in clenching and unclenching spasmodically as he waited and waited.

S. S. swept around the last sharp curve, with his body leaning far inward, and held out his little crimson block of wood. Still running by his side, the tall, thin chap thrust forward a blue one. Two clutching hands closed upon them, and Specs and his opponent were off upon the second relay. The race was still nip and tuck, with no advantage to either team.

But there was no holding Specs. He ran as if his very life depended upon eluding the other fellow; and little by little, just an inch or two in each few strides, he forged into a clean lead. Rodman Cree was on the track now, waiting his turn with white, set face and wildly groping fingers. As Specs reached him at last, now a good dozen yards ahead of the All-School fellow, Bunny sucked in his breath. Suppose—suppose something should happen; some accident, say, that would mull things up and worry the new boy.

But none did. As smoothly as clockwork, Specs reached forth a hand with the crimson block, and Rodman grasped it and began to run. There has been no pause, no halt, no delay whatever. And the third man of the Scouts' relay was off with a commanding lead.

Bunny relaxed and began to breathe easier. By his side, some boy was puffing mightily, like a motor with its exhaust open. Not till the other spoke, though, did Bunny recognize who it was.

"He—he can't hold his—lead," wheezed Specs mournfully. "See! What—what did I tell you? He's losing—losing ground every second."

Rodman was, too. There was no question about his determination; he was running with every ounce of will and ambition. But something was wrong.

"He—he's just no good!" puffed Specs. "Can't run—or jump—or throw—or anything. No good!"

The All-School runner was at Rodman's heels now. He swerved to the outside and came abreast of his opponent. For a brief span, they ran side by side. Then, like an elastic band that stretches longer and longer as the pull upon it increases, the gap widened alarmingly.

"I told you so," groaned Specs. "He's going to lose the race for us."

"It isn't lost yet," said Bunny grimly. He walked out upon the track, breathing hard and with knees wobbling treacherously. It seemed suffocatingly hot. Already his forehead was moist with perspiration.

The seconds he waited for the runners to reach him seemed to stretch into hours. At last, when the suspense was driving twitches through every muscle of his body, he heard the grateful thud-thud of feet behind him. Half turning, he held out his hand. But it was not Rodman; he realized that when he saw that the extended block was blue. Buck Claxton grabbed it, leaped forward like a race horse when the barrier is sprung, and was yards away before Bunny's bewildered brain righted.

Rodman Cree came pounding in at last. But just as he reached a point a foot or two short of Bunny, he tripped suddenly and fell, plunging toward his team mate from the impetus of his running. The accident was embarrassing, to be sure, but it could hardly have occurred at a luckier spot. Even as he sprawled helplessly toward Bunny, that runner took a quick side-step, to prevent a violent collision, and dashed forward upon the last relay of the race.

The pursuit of Buck seemed well-nigh hopeless. But Bunny did not despair. He fixed his eyes on the bobbing head of the boy in front of him, and urged himself toward it with every muscle of his lithe legs and every beat of his stout heart. On the straightaway portions of the track, he bent forward till it seemed he must fall; on the curves, he leaned inward till those near him among the spectators moved rapidly away in alarm. Always he kept his unwavering gaze upon the stubby shock of black hair that flaunted before him; and, little by little, it grew nearer and more distinct.

His wonderful burst of speed shook the crowd to a mighty roar of applause. He did not hear it. He did not even know they were cheering him. He was dumb to everything but the thud-thud of Buck's foot-beats and the beckoning thatch of his jerking head. His only thought was the dogged determination to reach and pass Buck. He must do it. He could do it. Why, the race—the whole meet—depended upon his beating Buck!

The time came when the shaggy head was before his very face. He swung to the right, ever so slightly, and parted his lips in a parched grin as he saw from the corner of his eye that it was by his side. When he risked another glance, he was in front of the bobbing head. But even as he exulted, Buck drew upon some hidden reserve of strength and pulled up even again.

They were at the very finish now, with the tape just ahead. For one last desperate moment, Bunny forced his legs to drive a tiny degree faster than they had been pounding, lifted his hands high in the air, threw himself forward, and felt the flimsy woolen string hit his chest,—hit it, cling for one awful instant, and then snap.

He had won. The relay, with its eight points for the winner, was safely tucked in the Scouts' total of firsts and seconds. Race and meet were theirs.

The cheering boys who had watched the heart-breaking finish charged upon him. He was lifted high upon the shoulders of Roundy and Jump, now quite unaware of their own lame and halt condition. S. S. and Specs were pounded and buffeted about. Of the four runners of the victorious team, only Rodman Cree was neglected.

Afterward, in the clubhouse, where the remaining six members of the Scout team retreated to get away from the boisterous crowd, there was more jubilation. Everybody seemed to want to talk at once; that is, everybody except Rodman Cree, who sat a little back from the group and stared straight ahead, not smiling or laughing now. So great was the babel that it took Horace Hibbs a minute or two to make himself heard, when he came in abruptly.

"There's an argument outside," he began abruptly. "A—yes, you might call it a protest. They claim you fellows didn't win the race fairly."

"Who says so?" It was Spec's indignant voice. "Buck Claxton?"

Horace Hibbs' solemn face relaxed into the hint of a smile. "No, not Buck. Somebody else; somebody not on the All-School team; somebody who doesn't matter."

"Oh!" said Rodman. It was just as if he had said, "I'm glad it wasn't Buck."

"But what—why—What do they mean, we didn't win fairly?" stuttered Specs.

"The claim has been made," Horace Hibbs told them, speaking very slowly, "that your third runner did not pass the block of wood to Bunny, who ran the last relay. If it was not properly passed, and Bunny ran without it, he may be disqualified."

The resultant silence was vaguely disquieting. Outside, a wondering breeze whipped through the oak tree at the back of the clubhouse, and a dozen dried leaves pattered on the roof like raindrops.

"Well?" Horace Hibbs straightened his shoulders, as if he had a disagreeable task to perform. "Suppose we thresh out the claim. What are the facts, Bunny?"

But before the Scout leader could answer, Rodman Cree pushed his way into the little circle. "I can tell you," he said unsmilingly. "Just before I reached Bunny, you remember, I tripped and fell. I dropped the block on the track instead of passing it to him."

A bomb could not have produced greater sensation. Specs uttered an exclamation of disgust. S. S., hero of the first relay, gasped audibly. Bunny nodded grudgingly. Only Horace Hibbs seemed to take it in other than in a spirit of disaster.

"I am glad there is no dispute about the facts in here," he said. Bunny glanced up quickly and found the man's face beaming happily once more. "Yes, I am more than glad," continued Horace Hibbs. "Because, you see, I have already taken up the matter with Buck Claxton."

"And he thinks his team won?" snapped Specs.

"No," said Rodman Cree quickly. "He doesn't, does he, Mr. Hibbs?"

Horace Hibbs fairly exuded good-nature. Something seemed to have pleased him immensely.

"No," he admitted; "Buck said—let me see if I can quote him exactly—he said, 'Shucks, no, Hibbs! We don't want to claim we weren't licked fair and square, when we were. We lost because Bunny Payton ran the eye-teeth out of me on that last lap. The block doesn't count. That was why I objected to it in the first place: 'fraid somebody would lose it and gum up things. You go and tell your bunch of Boy Scouts that they beat us to-day for the first and last time—yep, beat us on the level; but that I can get up a gang that will wipe the earth with them at football or baseball or basketball or anything else—except a track meet.' And so"—Horace Hibbs smiled broadly—"so you may consider yourselves told, and act accordingly. But I should suggest that hereafter you and Buck work together for the good of the school, instead of against each other."

"We will," promised Bunny; and he was heartily seconded by little echoing tags of, "Sure, we will!" and "You bet!" and "Why not?"

"Good!" exclaimed Horace Hibbs. "I don't see how any track meet could prove a greater success." He walked to the door and turned for a final word. "Nap, I am inclined to think Napoleon was right when he said, 'There are no Alps.'"

Bunny didn't pretend to understand this queer remark. But he would have been a very laggard Boy Scout, indeed, if he had failed to observe one thing. Although Horace Hibbs spoke to Nap, he was looking straight at Rodman Cree.