The Purple Pennant/Chapter 17
ON Monday work for the Track Team entrants was no different than usual. Perry, one of a bunch of seven or eight sprinters, practiced starts, did two fifty-yard dashes and finally swung through the two hundred and twenty. There were no trails, nor were any of the number allowed to go faster than a "hustle," which was Skeet's term for a pace that was something like a glorified jog. Lanny, who was now giving three afternoons each week to track work, spent much of his time coaching the rest, and to him Perry owed his first real understanding of what might be called the philosophy of the crouching start. Lanny, watching Perry and two others at the mark, stopped proceedings.
"Just a minute, you fellows," he said. "Now, look here. You, Hull, and you, Soper, have got your holes placed wrong. Your front hole, Hull, is too far from the mark for you. You're losing distance every time. Put that front hole so that your instep will come opposite your right knee when you're down, and dig your hole deeper, man; that scratch in the ground doesn't give you any purchase. That's the ticket, dig it out. Now then, try that. Better? Hold on, though; you're straddled too much. The idea is that when you get away your rear foot will travel straight forward. Your back hole is too far to the right. Put it about here and see how it goes. That's the trouble with you, too, Soper. Your back hole is too far back and too wide of the line through your body."
The two boys followed instructions and presently tried another start. When they had run through their dozen or fifteen yards and walked back, Lanny began again.
"As near as I can tell, fellows," he said, "neither of you really understand why you're doing this. You appear to have the idea that when you start off you have to throw your body forward. The result is that you both go off with a jump and you don't get your stride until you're eight or ten yards away. Watch me a minute, please. You fellows, too; you're none of you getting off well. Now, then, fingers back of the mark, spread enough to carry your weight easily, but not tense; there ought to be a little spring to them as they lift. Now in setting your weight goes forward on your fingers and the ball of your left foot. Don't try to put your body over the line; only the head and shoulders. Now, when the pistol goes off, don't give a jump as though you were going to play leapfrog all the way down to the tape. Let yourself fall forward naturally, as you're bound to when you lift your hands, and then run. That's the whole idea of that start. You're falling forward and you run to keep from going on your face. Bring your rear foot forward on a straight line, raise your body slowly—don't jerk your shoulders up—and get your stride in the first three or four steps at the most. Don't try for long steps. Take short ones, at least at first until you learn to lengthen them without throwing yourself off. When you're running the hundred yards, fellows, about fifty per cent. of it depends on the way you get off your mark. Races are won or lost right there. The idea is to get away quick, but get your stride at once. Now, then, watch me and see how I do it."
That, thought Perry, as his gaze followed Lanny's bare legs twinkling down the path, simplified the business. No one had told him that it was the falling forward of his body that gave him speed in getting away from the mark. He had been, in fact, struggling against that very thing, trying to recover his equilibrium at the earliest possible moment and, in that effort, making his second step a kind of leap in the air and wrenching his head and shoulders backward with an awkward and often painful motion. The result had been that for at least a half-dozen strides he had been "running up and down." Having once grasped the "why and wherefor," Perry found that the crouching start was the simplest thing in the world! Not that he mastered it that afternoon or for many succeeding afternoons, but each time it came easier and eventually he found that he could reach his stride within three or four steps of the mark and at twenty yards be running at top speed.
That afternoon's work-out ended with a "hustle" over the two-twenty, and when, slowing up from that, Perry turned to seek Skeet and report, he caught a glimpse of Fudge, far down the field, hopping ludicrously on one foot with a shot poised in upstretched hand. Perry smiled sympathetically as the shot sped away for a scant thirty feet. Fudge, he feared, was not making a howling success of his athletic endeavors. There was a rumor of an impending cut in the squad and Perry wondered whether he and Fudge would survive it. He almost dared to think that he would, for, excepting Lanny and Kirke and, possibly, Soper, his work was as good as any so far. As for Fudge, however, he knew that Falkland, Partridge and Brimmer were all from six to eight feet better with the shot, and he doubted that Skeet would retain more than three fellows for the weight events. Having been released by the coach, with instructions to report a quarter of an hour earlier on the morrow, Perry sought the dressing-room, waited his turn at the shower, and finally dressed and went in search of Fudge. The shot-putters were not in sight, though, and, hesitating whether to remain and watch baseball practice or continue his search for his chum, he at last left the field and made his way back along Common Street to where, in the vacant block behind the field, the weight candidates were practicing with the hammer.
Partridge was in charge, and the squad consisted of Fudge, George Falkland and Thad Brimmer, while four or five spectators looked on from a safe distance behind the ring. Perry joined these and watched Harry Partridge whirl the twelve-pound weight and send it sailing far across the turf. None of them was making any great effort for distance, however, the matter of form still being the consideration. Fudge followed Partridge, and Perry, who had never yet seen his friend essay the hammer-throw, was prepared to resent the snickers or amused comments of the watchers beside him. But Fudge proved something of a revelation. Awkward with the shot he undoubtedly was, and it was much of a question whether he would ever learn to handle that object successfully, but when it came to throwing the hammer Fudge was another fellow. His sturdy body turned with the swinging weight, his arms outstretched, his feet twinkling marvelously above the trampled ground. Then he stopped quickly, the whirling hammer dipped, rose and, released, arched off like a shot from a mortar, and Fudge, recovering, pulled up with a foot against the wooden rim.
"Bully!" commended Partridge warmly. "That was all right, Fudge! And you see what I mean about not pulling back on the release, don't you? That was mighty good form! Mighty good! Get your sweater on and keep moving. All right, George. Now see if you handle your feet better."
Perhaps Falkland was so busy trying to manage his feet correctly that he forgot the flying weight. At all events, at the completion of the second turn the ball of the hammer struck the ground, plowed up a foot of the soft turf and sent Falkland head over heels before he could let go the handle! Fortunately, he picked himself up unhurt, and the laughter of the audience brought only a sheepish grin to his face. While he regained his breath Thad Brimmer took his turn. After that Falkland again tried and got the weight away without misadventure, although not to the satisfaction of Partridge. Fudge threw again and, while the result was not as good as that of his former performance, did very well. Partridge explained again, and again threw, and the practice was over.
"That was a peach of a throw, Fudge," commended Perry, as he ranged himself beside his friend. "I didn't know you could do it like that!"
"It isn't hard," replied Fudge carelessly, "if you know how." But he managed to convey by his tone that it was hard and that a great deal of credit was deserved by one William Shaw. "I guess the time before the last I must have made a hundred and fifty feet easy!"
Fudge's estimate was somewhat too generous, but Perry accepted it unquestionably and accorded admiration. He waited outside while Fudge performed his ablutions and arrayed himself in his street attire, and then, in the wake of the baseball players, they made their way back to town. Fudge, plainly pleased with himself, had a good deal to say regarding the gentle art of throwing the hammer, and Perry listened patiently until the subject was exhausted. Then, and by that time they were leaning against Fudge's front gate in the fragrant warmth of the May afternoon, Perry said:
"Say, Fudge, I've been thinking."
"Uh-huh," responded Fudge disinterestedly.
"About Mr. Addicks."
"Anything new?" asked Fudge eagerly. "Have you seen him?"
Perry shook his head. "No, but—but I've been thinking."
"You said that once," complained Fudge.
"Well, I don't believe he's so awfully bad, do you? He was mighty nice to us the other day, Fudge. Lots of folks would have kicked us down-stairs if they'd caught us listening outside the door like that. And he doesn't—doesn't look bad, now does he?"
"N-no." Fudge shook his head in agreement. "No, he doesn't. But we know he is, and"
"But we don't know what temptation he may have had, Fudge," pleaded Perry. "Maybe he was starving or—or something. Of course, it isn't right to rob even if you are starving, but—but it makes it less bad, doesn't it? And, for all we know, he may be trying to be better and—and live it down, eh? See what I mean?"
"Sure, and that may be so, too." Fudge knit his brows and looked extremely wise. "Maybe he's repented."
"That's what I think," said the other eagerly. "And so it seems to me we'd ought to help him all we can, Fudge, instead of—instead of hunting him down!"
"We aren't hunting him down," objected Fudge.
"We have been. If we went to the police to-day and told all we know, they'd grab him in a minute, wouldn't they?"
Fudge kicked the fence-post and hesitated. "I suppose so," he replied finally. "Only, we wouldn't go to the police, Perry. We'd go to the express company, because they offer the reward."
"I don't want the reward," declared Perry warmly. "And neither do you!"
Fudge looked a little bit startled. "N-no"
"Taking a reward for sending him to prison now when he's trying to lead a decent life and—and establish himself in business would be rotten! The money wouldn't bring anything but bad luck, either. No, sir, what we've got to do is stand by him and do all we can to help him, Fudge."
"Y-yes, but how can we? What can we do?"
"Well, for one thing, maybe we could see that he got some work. If he's going to stay honest, he mustn't be poor, because being poor is what leads folks to commit crimes, don't you see?"
"Playing the piano brings him money, doesn't it?"
"Not much, I guess. What we ought to do is to see if we can't find someone who will give him some civil engineering to do. I—I'll bet he's a good civil engineer, too!"
"So do I," asserted Fudge. "I'll bet he can engineer all around those fellows who did that work for Mr. Brent out there."
"That's what a civil engineer does, isn't it?" asked Perry. "I mean, lays out streets and bridges and—and things."
Fudge nodded. "And surveys things, too."
"Well, now, say, I was wondering whether we couldn't ask Morris to ask his father to give him a job."
"Give Morris a job?"
"No, Mr. Addicks. He's got a lot more land out there that hasn't been surveyed, I'll bet. And if Morris asked him to give some of the work to Mr. Addicks—of course, not all of it, but some of it—I guess he would. He's mighty fond of Morris."
Fudge considered silently. The idea struck him as being perfectly feasible, even brilliant, but he wished he had thought of it himself. After a moment: "Morris isn't the one, though, to ask Mr. Brent," he announced.
"Who is?"
"Louise."
"I don't know her except to speak to, and I wouldn't like to ask her. You could, though, couldn't you?"
"Mm, maybe. I've got a better scheme than that, though, Perry. You listen. You know, Dick and Louise are great friends, and if we went to Dick and told him about Mr. Addicks and asked him to ask her to ask her father"
"Yes, but I don't think we ought to tell anyone, even Dick Lovering, about Mr. Addicks."
"We don't need to tell him that part of it. We'll just say that he's a—a tip-top fellow, which he is, and that he's just come here and needs work like anything; that he has to live in one room and maybe doesn't have enough to eat, and how he worked his way through college running a livery stable, and lost his money in oil or something, and all that. Dick's just the fellow to help anyone like that. He—he just loves to help folks!"
"Well, if we could do it that way, without letting out about Mr. Addicks being a train-robber, it would be fine," replied Perry heartily. "Shall we, Fudge?"
"Uh-huh, we'll go around to-night and see Dick. I'll just bet you anything that Mr. Brent could give him a lot of things to do if he wanted to. And I'll bet Mr. Addicks is the fellow to do them, too!"
"Yes, there's something about him that makes you know he's smart," confirmed Perry enthusiastically. "It would be dandy if we could help him—help him"
"Get on his feet again," supplied Fudge, whose literary efforts had provided him with a fine collection of phrases. "Yes, sir, and it's great we thought of doing it, Perry."
Perry was too pleased to challenge his friend's use of the word "we," and in a few minutes they had parted, having agreed to meet at half-past seven at the corner of Troutman and E Streets and put the case before Dick Lovering.