Hill-and-Dale

Under a railroad trestle and down a rutty stretch of frost-baked road near Van Cortlandt Park, the Bronx, loped a slender runner in a crimson jersey. He crested a hill and the autumn wind reached for him, baffling his breath like a hand laid over his mouth; he twisted his head to look for a rangy man who had been running at his side. For about half an hour these two, accompanied by 106 other runners from various eastern colleges, had been racing against each other over a six-mile trail for the hill-and-dale intercollegiate championship of the East. All the way the rangy man (James Loucks, Syracuse) had been pressing the runner in crimson (Willard L. Tibbets, Harvard). But now, as he turned his head, Tibbets saw Loucks blow a bead of sweat from the end of his nose, lift his chin and drink a great gulp of air. Yes, in another moment Loucks would sprint. Tibbets could see the finish, the crowd around the tape. It was just too far away; if he let himself out now, he could not make it; Loucks with his superior stamina would catch him. Still, it was a chance; he sent down a command to his legs. . .

A waterfall, roared in his ears; he heard a thudding step behind him; a thread brushed his chest-- and someone was wrapping him in a blanket, thumping him on the back, telling him he had made it, had beaten Loucks by a yard after six miles. Third--100 yards behind--struggled Arthur Hillman of Maine, and behind him the gasping, wavering, dogged pack.