Читать книгу Captain of the Crew - Barbour Ralph Henry - Страница 8

“I don’t like Taylor’s letting ’Is ’Ighness creep up on him that way,” objected Williams. “He was napping; and he’ll need every foot he can get before the race is over.”

“Nesbitt’s doing some head-work,” answered Dick, with a note of admiration in his voice, “and I wouldn’t be surprised to see him get the best of Taylor yet. If he can keep up – Look there!”

Trevor was at his former tactics. Just as Taylor reached the second corner the upper middle boy fairly threw himself forward, and ere the senior runner had taken alarm had closed up with him until a mere six yards intervened. The upper middle fellows howled with delight, and the seniors, striving to hide their dismay, cheered lustily. Taylor’s face wore a scowl as he increased his speed and strove to regain his lost lead.

But Trevor held what he had taken, took his pace from Taylor, and with never a look to right or left, kept doggedly at the other’s heels. The fourth lap started in a veritable pandemonium. Taylor was now but a scant ten yards in the lead, and those who saw Trevor’s calm, intent gaze fastened upon the other boy’s shoulders realized that, barring a mishap such as had fallen to the lot of Kernan, he would, if he did not actually win, at least finish so close behind Taylor as to make the race one of the closest ever witnessed at Hillton, indoors or out.

This time Taylor was on the lookout, and when Trevor spurted was ready for him and so held his advantage. Trevor was well satisfied, for he had no wish to pass Taylor at that time, but only to tire and worry him. His spurt lasted until the line was again crossed. And now Taylor took the initiative and increased his speed, for, as Trevor had expected, the short spurts had made him nervous. But shake off his pursuer he could not, and with the lap half run but five yards lay between the two.

“He’s a silly chump!” shouted Todd angrily, glaring across at the speeding senior runner. “Why doesn’t he keep that for the last lap; can’t he see he’s begun to spurt too early?”

“I have an idea that Trevor Nesbitt’s got him scared,” answered Dick.

“You just bet he has; he’s worried to death!” This from Williams, who was scowling blackly. “He deserves to lose it.”

“And Nesbitt deserves to win it,” said Dick.

“Humph! You seem to have changed your tune!”

Dick accepted the gibe good-naturedly.

“I have; I think Nesbitt’s the headiest youngster I’ve seen in a long while, and as for Taylor – ”

The bell clanged loudly, announcing the beginning of the last lap, and every fellow in the balcony was on his feet in the instant. As he took the first turn Taylor glanced hurriedly back and met the unwavering and, as it seemed to him, relentless stare of Trevor, and putting every effort into his work again increased his pace. Everybody was shouting now, but as the two runners passed under the seniors’ balcony one voice sounded more loudly than all:

“Good work, Nesbitt!”

And Trevor heard it and recognized Dick Hope’s voice, and for an instant a smile crossed his face. Then the second incline was under his feet, and he had to use care lest he trip. But he got safely over, and now the time for his final effort had come. Into the back-stretch he sped, and the watchers held their breath, for foot by foot the lost ground was being eaten up by his flying feet. Then a burst of applause shook the rafters and Taylor, running despairingly, heard the other lad’s feet at his side, strove to goad his wearied limbs into faster strides, and found with dismay at his heart that he had reached his limit.

At the third corner Trevor with a final effort leaped into the lead, hugging the inside of the track. At the last corner he was a yard to the good, and from there down to the finish line, where Kernan and Chalmers and Johnston leaped frantically about the floor, he held his vantage, and so toppled over into eager, outspread arms, aching, breathless, and weak, but winner of the race. And as he stretched himself gratefully on the mattress he heard the timekeeper announce:

“Last quarter, fifty-seven and one fifth; the mile, three forty-eight and two fifths.”

When Trevor reached his room he found Dick seated in front of the fire, a Latin text-book face downward in his lap, his arms over his head, and his eyes closed. The fire was almost out, and the room was chilly. Trevor as silently as possible placed another log in the grate, and, disappearing into the bedroom, came out again with his dressing-gown, which after a moment’s hesitation he spread over the sleeper’s knees. Then he doffed his coat and cap, and standing by the fireplace held his chilled hands to the blaze and looked down at Dick. And as he looked he fell to wondering why it was that he and his roommate got on together so badly. It was not his fault, he told himself; he had tried every way he knew to thaw Dick’s indifference. It was now ten days since the winter term had commenced, and the two boys were as much strangers to each other as they had been after Trevor’s burst of confidence on their first night together. Trevor often regretted that confidence; he sometimes thought that he had bored Dick with his family photographs and history, and remembered with a flush that his roommate had never responded in like manner. Of course, his cheekiness on the stage-coach during that unfortunate drive had been the primary cause of Dick’s dislike; and Trevor couldn’t blame the latter for taking umbrage; only – well, he had apologized and explained, and it seemed that the other ought to be willing to forgive. It was not that Dick was nasty; he treated Trevor with good-humored politeness; fact was, Trevor reflected dubiously, Dick was altogether too polite; his politeness was of the sort which he imagined a judge might display toward the prisoner in the dock. He wished that Dick would throw a boot at him so that they could have it out and come to an understanding.

Dick moved restlessly and opened his eyes. His gaze encountered Trevor’s and he smiled sleepily and stretched himself. Then he sat up and looked about him perplexedly.

“Well, if I didn’t go to sleep!” he said. “What time is it?”

Trevor glanced at the battered alarm-clock on the table. “Ten minutes of twelve,” he answered.

Dick yawned and suddenly spied the dressing-gown. He pulled it toward him and looked at it in astonishment.

“What – ?”

Trevor flushed as he answered hurriedly: “It was so bally chilly here when I came in, you know; and I thought that maybe you’d catch cold. So I threw that over you. Just pitch it on the floor there.”

“Thanks,” said Dick. “I expect it was chilly. I was going to put another stick on the fire, and while I was thinking about it I suppose I fell asleep. It’s pretty late, isn’t it? Well, to-morrow’s Sunday.”