Bert Wilson, Marathon Winner Part 9

After five minutes of hard pulling, the little boat reached the steamer's side. Her rails were crowded with pa.s.sengers, waiting to welcome in the first real drama that many of them had ever witnessed.

As Bert was helped on deck he was welcomed with a rousing cheer that might have been heard for a mile around the s.h.i.+p. Bert flushed with pleasure and acknowledged the salute as best he could in his dripping garments, while he whispered to his two companions:

"Get me into the cabin as soon as you can, will you, fellows? It's fine of them to greet me so right royally, but I know I must look a wreck and it wouldn't feel so very bad to get some dry clothes on."

Meanwhile, the stoker, who had not regained consciousness, was taken below to receive medical attention. As the sailors laid him on his bunk they muttered discontentedly of the inadvisability of rescuing mad stokers, who were little better than land lubbers, anyway.

"Sure and now we'll be having one more worthless shpalpeen on our hands," O'Brien was saying. "Oi'm not sayin' as it wasn't a brave thing that that young feller has been afther doin', but jist the same it would 'a been bether to have left him there and saved us the throuble of burying of him later."

"Ay, ay, so say I," growled another. "He'll probably die before the week's out, and 'tis my opinion that he's better dead than alive, seein'

he's crazy, poor devil."

"Hus.h.!.+ he's conscious," warned the doctor, as he rose from his kneeling position beside the bunk. "He will do nicely, now, with good care. I'll be back in an hour to see how he's getting along."

As the doctor left the room, the two sailors neared the stoker, who lay with his eyes closed, as if absolutely oblivious to their presence.

"Well, old b'y," said O'Brien, "how be ye feelin' afther your duckin'?

Pretty spry?"

Slowly the man opened his eyes and let them rest for a long minute on the big Irishman's ruddy face. When he spoke, the words came haltingly, as if he were groping in his memory for facts that persistently eluded him.

"I don't seem to recollect," he said, "just exactly what happened. Was I--did I"--and the fear and pleading in his voice went straight to O'Brien's heart--"was I--mad?"

"Now don't you worry about that, son," O'Brien lied, kindly. "Ye wuzn't mad, ye wuz jist a thrifle touched be the heat. Oi'll bet anythin' ye'll be up 'n aroun' as hale an' hearty as the skipper himself in a day or two." Then he added in an undertone to his companion, "Bedad, an' if he ain't as sane as any man jack of us, me name ain't Pat O'Brien. Sure an'

Oi ain't niver seen the loike of it before."

"Me neither," the other answered in awestruck tones. "He goes off the boat madder than a March hare and comes back after a dip in the briny and a knock-out punch over one eye seemin' as right as a trivet. It beats all."

Meanwhile the man on the bed had been watching the men wistfully, and as...o...b..ien turned to him again, he asked eagerly, "Please tell me everything. I know I was out of my head, so you needn't be afraid to tell me the truth."

"Sure and Oi will, then," Pat said, heartily, and he did, from beginning to end, omitting nothing.

When the tale was finished the doctor came again to have another look at his patient and was surprised and delighted at his improvement. "Why, at this rate we'll have you up and around by this time day after to-morrow," he cried. "What's that?" as the stoker whispered something in his ear. "Why, yes, I guess he will come. I'll give him your message, anyway, and see what he says."

Then with a cheerful nod he left his patient to the enjoyment of a well-cooked, appetizing meal.

Half an hour later Bert, clad once more in dry, snug clothes, made his way hurriedly below to the stokers' cabin. He had declined his friends'

offer to accompany him, for his instinct told him that the stoker would prefer to see him alone.

As he turned the k.n.o.b of the door the stoker looked around inquiringly.

Bert went forward quickly.

"I am Bert Wilson," he said. "The doctor gave me your message and I came as soon as I could get a bite to eat."

"It was very good of you to come, sir," the man replied, nervously fumbling with a gla.s.s on the table at his elbow. "You see, I wanted to thank you and tell you how sorry I am that I gave you--any--trouble in the water." His voice was scarcely above a whisper. "I can jist recollect, now, that I tried to--kill--you. Can you ever--forgive----"

"Forgive," Bert interrupted. "Why, I have nothing to forgive, but if I had I would have forgiven and forgotten long ago." Then he put out his hand impulsively and said in that frank, open way that was peculiarly his own, "You and I have gone through great danger together and have managed to pull through with nothing but a few scratches to tell the story. Shall we shake hands on it?"

"Well, you sure did get everything that was coming to you, Bert," Tom said, as they were getting ready for bed that night. "You asked for excitement----"

"And I got it," Bert finished, as he slipped in between the cool, inviting sheets. "Good-night, fellows, I'm off."

CHAPTER X

CROOKED WORK

"Yes, me byes, there's nothin' in this wide world much worse, to me manner o' thinkin', than a 'ringer.'" It was Reddy who spoke, following up a conversation in which most of the athletes had joined. "Crookedness is a bad thing in any line of business or amus.e.m.e.nt, but it's specially bad in anythin' like sport, that in its very nature ought to be kept clean and wholesome. It's a queer thing, though, but true none the less, that there's nothin' much worse than some branches o' sport. Look at prize fightin', fer instance. O' course, I'm not sayin' that some fights aren't on the level, an' all that, but take them as a rule and the sc.r.a.ps and sc.r.a.ppers are so crooked they could hide behind a corkscrew."

"Yes, and there are lots of other things the same way," observed Bert, who was one of the group. "I've been told that wrestling is as crooked, if not more so, than boxing. Do you think it is, Reddy?"

"Well, that's a hard question, m' son," returned the veteran trainer, thoughtfully. "When you get right down to it, there's not much to choose between them. I've seen many a boxin' an' wrestlin' bout in my time, but there's very few that I thought was straight from start to finish. It's a wonder to me how the fight promoters manage to keep on fooling the public. It looks to me as though a babe in arms would get wise to their game. But nix! The poor ginks will file out of a hall after a rotten go, swearing they'll never spend a cent to see another fight, and the next week they're back again, same as ever."

"I guess there's not as much underhand work in other lines of sport as in that, though, is there, Reddy?" questioned Tom.

"No, I don't think there is," answered Reddy, speculatively. "Of course, among amateurs, there generally isn't the money incentive that the professionals have, and that makes a big difference. The hard thing, when you're dealing with amateur meets, is to keep professionals out.

Some club will want specially to win a race, and like as not they'll look around for some professional, who's not too well known, to help them out. It's a dirty, low-down trick, o' course, but it's tried many a time, just the same."

"Huh," said Tom, "why doesn't the amateur up and beat the professional at his own game? There's nothing very wonderful about a man, just because he runs for money, instead of the honor."

"Thrue fer you, me bye," returned Reddy, smiling, "but that's sometimes easier said than done. A man who's running to earn his bread is usually going to run faster than the man who's simply out fer glory. That may not sound very n.o.ble, and all that, but it's the truth, nine times out o' ten."

"Yes, but how about the tenth time?" asked Bert, who had been listening attentively to all the trainer said.

"Well, once in a great while the 'ringer' gets tripped up, o' course. I remember one time, many a long year ago, when I saw jist the thing you mentioned happen," and a reminiscent smile spread over the veteran's face.

The listening group of young athletes sensed a story at once, and a.s.sailed Reddy with requests to "fire away, and tell them about it."

The trainer seemed in a talkative mood, and without much urging, began.

"'Twas whin I was but a young lad," he said, "but even thin I was always interested in sport of any kind, and used to attend ivery track event for miles around the little town where I lived. I used to help around the club houses, carryin' water and such things, and got to know, by sight at any rate, a good many well-known runners and sich.

"Well, one day there was a big college meet not far from our town, and o' course nothin' would do me but what I must see it.

"Accordin'ly, I was hangin' around the club house long before the time for the race, and had plenty o' time to size up the contestants. They were as fine lookin' a set o' byes as you could wish to see, and they was all jokin' and rough-housin' as though they had never a care on their minds. I knew they'd be in dead enough earnest in a little while, though.

"Well, the time come for them to get dressed in their runnin' togs, and suddenly I began to sit up an' take notice, as you might say. As one big, sthrappin' feller, that I hadn't noticed much before, on account o'

his havin' kept apart a little from the others, and havin' been so quiet-like, stood up in his runnin' suit, it flashed across me mind that I'd seen him run some place before. At first I couldn't place him, think as hard as I might, but suddenly I remembered where I'd seen him. It was at a race held about a year ago, and then he had run in the hundred-yard dash with professionals and had come in third.

"'Well, what do ye know about that,' thinks I to myself, 'the good fer nothin' crook is goin' to run against these young fellers, and it's a cinch he'll cop off the prize.' And, believe me, I felt sorry for the other boys that was goin' to race against him, fer I knew he was fast, although not among the first-raters, and I figured that none o' the others would have a show in his company.

"However, there was nothin' I could do, for n.o.body would have taken my word for it, an' I'd a' got laughed at fer my trouble. So I kept me own council, and sat tight, but all interest in the big race was lost fer me, for I hated crooked work about as much then as I do now, I guess.

"There was a young feller from C---- that I'd picked to win the hundred-yard dash, before I recognized this ringer chap. (His name was Smith, by the way, but he was known now, I found out, as Castle.) Young Sidney was a game kid, all right, from his toes up. He wasn't very tall, and at first glance you wouldn't think he'd be any great shakes as a runner. But he could get away at the crack o' the pistol about as fast as any man I ever saw, barrin' none, and he could certainly burn up the track fer a short distance. He was never much on the long distances, but he was sure cla.s.s on everythin' up to three hundred yards.