"Hap" Skubrowski was
of Polish descent. And so
he wanted to be known as 

The Pole
Vaulter

by JACKSON V. SCHOLZ

Author of "Condemned Baskets," etc.

IT was only during the middle of his sophomore year that "Hap" Skubrowski actually began to get wise to himself. The student body of Rowford College had, up to that time, been more or less tolerant of Hap's adolescent sense of humor, but even the most dogged resistance can be worn down in time.

The revolt got under way when certain of the students conceived a unique form of greeting, reserved for Hap alone. This greeting, after the manner of a salute, consisted of holding the nose delicately between thumb and forefinger.

It was rather a pity, too, because Hap was a likable guy. His whole trouble lay in the fact that he had not yet recognized punning as the lowest form of humor. He had developed the trait in high school, where he had been considered very funny indeed. The payoff was that he was still lavishing his wit upon men who had outgrown that sort of thing.

So, after facing a considerable amount of nose holding, Hap decided to take serious stock of himself. He realized his puns weren't being appreciated anymore, but his first reaction to that was entirely personal. He logically assumed that his puns were no longer original enough to attract the attention they deserved.

He must, therefore, lay off until seized by a real inspiration; until he had conceived a masterful play on words which would rock the school to its foundations.

Hap didn't know where he'd find such an inspiration, but he set about the search. His wanderings led him to the unfamiliar territory of the gym, where he found the track and field men cavorting about in an early-season workout.

Hap was interested. The guys seemed to be having a pretty good time. He almost forgot he was searching for the pun of puns, until, out of a clear sky, it burst upon him in all its glory.

Casually, he approached a small group of his acquaintances, ignoring as much as possible the graphic symbol of the pinched noses. He entered into conversation, and gradually their suspicious attitudes relaxed. After a while Hap found his opening.

"I ought to be a natural in that event," he said, nodding toward the vaulters.

His listeners tensed, expecting something. But finally, to Hap's great relief, one of them asked him, "Why?"

"Well," said Hap, holding the deadpan with some difficulty, "if you give a little thought to my name, and the nationality of my ancestors, couldn't you truthfully say that I'd be a Pole vaulter?"

There was a moment of thoughtful silence, then one group uncorked an impulsive guffaw. All of them grabbed their noses, to be sure, but there was true appreciation, nevertheless, gleaming from their eyes. Hap's heart swelled with pride.

EVEN as a pun it caught the public fancy, and the wisecrack spread about the gym, bringing smiles. "Sleepy" Myslowitz, first-string sprinter, wandered over.

"I suppose that makes me a Pole sprinter, then," he suggested.

"To tell the truth," Hap retorted, "my slow wits couldn't figure that one out."

It was a risky thing to do. Groans followed, almost spoiling the effect of his masterpiece. Hap saw the danger and changed the subject.

"I apologize for the last one," he said humbly. "I guess I'd better stick to vaulting."

"Swell idea," agreed one of the listeners. "You might break your neck, and then we wouldn't have to listen to any more of your puns."

The suggestion gained favor almost immediately. "Why don't you give it a whirl?" another urged. "We'd be the only team in the conference to have a Pole vaulter."

It was an idiotic thing, even to consider, but Hap, at that moment, was not in a normal frame of mind. In the first place, he was foolishly elated over the "Pole vaulter" crack. Secondly, he resented the sincerity of the man who hoped he'd break his neck. Thirdly, the distinction of being the only Pole vaulter in the conference did appeal to him more than he would have believed possible.

The combination of these three things instilled the warm zest of achievement.

"Well, by gosh, I guess I will try it!" he suddenly declared.

"Atta boy!" a voice encouraged. "Grab yourself a pole."

Hap became self-conscious. "Naw," he said. "I'll wait until tomorrow."

"What's the matter? Scared?" asked the fellow who'd mentioned the business about the neck.

That was carrying things a little too far, because Hap wasn't scared. As a matter of fact, he'd watched the vaulters clearing the low heights, and he had a sneaking hunch that he could do the same.

"You can't get by with a crack like that," he snapped, peeling off his coat.

He headed for the standards, wishing he hadn't been so hasty. Once near them, the nine-foot height of the bar looked perilously high. He'd committed himself, though, to the point where he couldn't back out.

The stage, fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, was well set for the exhibition. The coach was temporarily off the floor. The track men were in the relaxed, carefree mood of early season, willing for a little horseplay.

There appeared, however, to be one exception to this. Hap recognized the man as Bert Steel, the slender, serious-faced senior who was the vaulting ace of the Rowford Bucks.

Bert, frowning slightly, arose from the mats on the far side of the standards. He was, quite obviously, a man with no frivolous qualities about him, and it was equally obvious that he disapproved of the present set-up.

"Better forget about it, Skubrowski," be said shortly. "This isn't an event you can fool around with. It's dangerous if you don't know what you're doing."

"I guess I can take care of myself," Hap said.

Bert shrugged disgustedly and turned away. But when Hap stooped down to pick up a pole, Bert whirled on him ferociously.

"Don't touch that pole!" he rapped.

"Why not?" demanded Hap, surprised.

"Because I said so! Leave it alone!"

HAP turned a brick-red. He didn't know, of course, that Bert cherished his pole above all else; that this was the normal attitude of any top- notch vaulter. One pole was as good as another as far as Hap was concerned.

A difficult moment was prevented by another vaulter. "Use this one, Hap," he said. "It's a practice pole. You can't hurt it."

So Hap, fuming inwardly, took the proffered pole and walked away from the standards. It felt clumsy and ungainly as a crowbar. He didn't know what to do with it, and nobody offered to tell him.

He faced the bar amid the pleased silence of the watchers. He felt very much alone at that moment, and considerably like a fool. He managed, in some manner, to spread his hands along the bamboo surface, and to lift the point from the floor, innocently unaware that he was gripping it around a twelve-foot height.

He got under way with some difficulty because of his leather soles. He solved this to some extent by running flat upon his heels, which, fortunately, were of rubber. He gave it everything he had, and, once started, felt as helpless as a runaway freight train.

The point of the pole described large wavering circles as it aimed for the wooden slot. No one, including Hap himself, had any idea of how the point actually found the slot. But it did; chugged in dead center.

Hap's next sensation was the dizzy conviction that he had somehow become hitched to the tail of a comet.

He was utterly helpless in that first breathless swoop through space. He promptly forgot all the things he had observed concerning the technique of pole vaulting. He felt that he was being carried from the bosom of Mother Earth; that the pole was his single, frail connecting link.

So he froze to the pole with the mighty grip of a drowning man. The momentum of his run carried him to a vertical position; but about that time, the momentum petered out, leaving him marooned between floor and rafters.

It was a ticklish spot; ticklish enough to bring yelps of alarm from several of the watchers. Hap was much too concerned with the yawning space beneath him to give heed to these small cries. It required a veritable blast to bring him to his senses.

Some fast-thinking person with a foghorn voice yelled, "Leggo that pole!"

Hap didn't know it then, but the roar came from Coach Harper, who had arrived upon the floor at this critical moment. Hap did sense, however, the tone of authority in the voice, and his muscles responded automatically.

He unclamped his hands; but not until then did he realize that his legs, too, were wrapped around the bamboo shaft. The resulting picture was that of a fireman sliding down the brass pole which connects his sleeping quarters with the engine house.

The vaulting pole, through some miracle of balance, didn't topple until Hap was within a few feet of the ground. It then deposited him gently upon the mats, adding the final touch of ludicrousness to an act which began seriously.

NO one could say that Hap's efforts weren't appreciated, even though the appreciation wasn't the kind he'd hoped for. As it was, several of the watchers came close to laughing themselves into a stroke of apoplexy.

It was the sort of laugh which would sweep the campus, and would dog his footsteps through the coming years. It left him two choices. Either to live it down through patience, or to cram it down their throats. The latter would entail a definite proof that he could vault.

Hap was smart enough to see this in a reasonably short length of time. It accounted for his conference with the coach.

"I've made a donkey of myself," he said bluntly. "Now I've got to learn to vault. Do you think I can?"

"I couldn't say, Hap. But I'll admit that I like your spirit. Come out tomorrow and we'll go to work."

So Hap checked out an outfit, and the coach looked him over.

"Hm-m-m. Nice shoulders," he said approvingly. "And now, if you've got speed, and can coordinate—"

Hap had the speed, and he could coordinate. Coach Harper began to show mild enthusiasm. He drilled Hap carefully in the early fundamentals.

Hap spent hours, it seemed, merely learning to run with the pole, and to sink the point in the slot. Then came the careful tries at the low heights—six feet to start with; the leap from the floor, the swing, the pull-up, the body twist, and the infinite number of tiny details which go to make up vaulting form.

Hap worked like a dog, and learned with the speed of desperation. He had to, because his life on the campus was one continuous round of misery. He became the Pole vaulter more emphatically than he had ever dreamed, but there were always a couple of big haw- haws tacked on to the end of it.

The track team accepted him with tolerant amusement. Bert Steel alone seemed to disapprove of his serious efforts.

Everything might have been all right, though, if Hap's seriousness had lasted. But when he began to get the feel of the pole, and when his height crept slowly upward, his normal carefree tendencies returned, together with his lust for punning.

One day in practice, he swept the bar to the floor. "Well," be observed brightly, "that crossbar seems cross with me today."

Bert Steel started as though jabbed with an ice pick. "I thought you'd outgrown that!" he snapped. "I'd rather hear a good cuss word than a pun. It shows more intelligence."

Hap didn't like the other's tone. "Nobody asked you what you thought," he shot back.

"I'm telling you just the same," said Bert sourly. "If you'd keep your alleged brains on vaulting you'd be better off."

AFTER that, they didn't get along so well together. Hap regarded Bert as a surly senior with Phi Beta Kappa on the brain, and Bert undoubtedly regarded Hap in an even more unfavorable light.

It was a natural antagonism that grew as the season advanced. It became even more pronounced as Hap, showing amazing talent, gradually sailed higher in the air.

The Buck fans were now mentioning the Pole vaulter without the customary guffaw. For this reason, it is difficult to say which man might have gained the ultimate favor of the student body, had not circumstances stepped in to alter things considerably.

It was during the second indoor meet of the season, the first in which Hap had been allowed to compete. It was a club invitation meet with no point prize at stake, a fact which did not decrease Hap's case of galloping jitters. It was his first appearance before the public eye, and he was scared green, for no good reason.

He blundered through the early heights by sheer luck, but managed to get his nerves somewhat under control by the time the bar reached eleven feet. He got over along with most of the others. He also negotiated eleven feet three inches and eleven six.

He noted enviously that Bert was clearing all these heights in a bored sort of manner, and it might have been this attitude of Bert's that started Hap to pressing.

Hap had, it is true, no real hope of licking Bert for some time yet, but he did want to be among those to force Bert to his limit, because Bert was considered the class of the event.

So, at eleven nine, Hap kicked off the bar on his way up. It shook his confidence considerably. He took more time on the next height, and did but little better. It was but small satisfaction that Bert missed his first jump through carelessness. The latter was bound to make it on his second trial.

But Bert didn't.

Hap had one trial left, too, but he was worried. Checking his two previous failures, he decided his takeoff needed changing. He was starting his measured run from a track shoe placed along the runway. He moved this shoe somewhat nearer the standards, and went back for his third trial.

He made a valiant effort, but he brought the bar down with him. He was feeling so bad over the whole thing that he required several seconds before his mind could absorb the unbelievable fact that Bert had also missed his third and last trial by a wide margin.

A shocked silence settled upon the crowd. Bert accepted the fact without change of expression. Hap saw him make a quiet request of the official; a request which the official granted.

Bert carefully measured his takeoff with a steel tape.

"It's been moved!" he said. "Someone moved it."

IT didn't take the officials long to put two and two together. One of them remembered that Hap had changed his takeoff mark. Apprehension began to smother Hap. He recalled now that Bert also used a shoe for his mark.

"Which shoe did you move?" the official asked Hap.

"The one that's farthest back," replied Hap.

"That was my mark," said Bert with cold significance.

"But I thought it was mine!" cried Hap desperately. "Honestly I did!"

Bert's eyes were hard and scornful. "Obviously," he said.

Anger rushed through Hap. He leaped from the bench. "Why, you dirty—" he choked.

An official shoved him roughly back.

"Take it easy, boy," he snapped. "That's no way to settle it."

The official was right in that, but he didn't carry it far enough. There appeared to be no way of settling it. The matter festered like a boil in the minds of the Rowford student body, and they laid all the blame on Hap.

The popular belief was that Hap, through his dislike of Bert, had pulled a fast one on the other. There were many, of course, who didn't come right out and say this, but Hap's stock, nevertheless, fell off like a ski jump.

Even the track team went cold against him. There was no longer any fun in training, so Hap threw himself into the work with bitter violence. There was nothing in the world he wanted so much now as to outvault the stony-faced Bert Steel.

And, from Hap's miraculous improvement as the days went by, it began to look as though he might actually have a chance to turn the trick in the all- important dual meet against the Winfield College Colts.

The meet was held in the large neutral indoor arena of Harbor City. It was a big annual event even for a town of that size, because when the Bucks and Colts tangled, it was generally for blood.

The squad went by train, but Hap received permission to drive to Harbor City in his small car. His excuse was that after the meet, he intended to drive to his home in a nearby town for the rest of the weekend. The car, as it turned out, played a major role in the unexpected events that piled up one atop the other.

The excitement was started by the student manager, who came tearing wild-eyed into the hotel lobby, just as the squad was about to leave for the arena. His story was that, through some blundering, two of the vaulting poles had been left at home. Then, to make things perfect, he announced that the missing poles were those of Hap and Bert.

Coach Harper hopped around and tore his hair a bit; but it was Hap who finally cracked through with a solution.

"If you can get the officials to hold off the event," he said quietly, "I'll go after the poles in my car. It's the only possible way we can be sure of getting them. If you phoned somebody back at school, they might bring the wrong ones. It's only thirty miles each way, and my bus can step."

The coach instantly agreed, but complications set in at once.

"I'm going, too," announced Bert flatly.

"You're crazy!" yelled the coach. "One man's enough."

But Bert stubbornly shook his head. "I'm not going to trust my pole in that guy's care," he warned. "I'm going, too."

Hap saw red, but he also saw the futility of starting anything. The coach might have had a hunch, but at any rate he said:

"O.K. Get started!"

THE first half of the wild ride was accomplished in hostile silence. Hap knew the road and he knew his car, so he gave it the works. It is very possible that Bert may have had several justifiable scares en route, but he certainly wouldn't have confided this to Hap.

They had a bit of difficulty in locating the poles. They weren't at the gym, and they finally ran them to earth in the express building, all crated and ready for shipment.

Here again they struck a snag. The expressman had no authority to relinquish the poles, and Bert did a masterful job in talking him out of them. Even Hap grudgingly admitted this.

The crates were too cumbersome to be carried in the car, so the poles were taken out and strapped carefully along the sides. They started back toward Harbor City at breakneck speed, and were halfway there before they had their accident.

A carful of noisy drunks came weaving down the road. In order to avoid a collision, Hap was forced into a shallow ditch, as the other car went whooping on.

After hurling a few lurid remarks toward the departing rum pots, Hap and Bert were faced with the job of getting the car back on the road. The nose was jammed hard into the bank. They tried manpower with no results.

"It'll have to be pried off the bank," said Hap.

Bert grunted agreement.

A search of the surrounding territory failed to disclose a proper lever.

"We'll have to use one of the poles," said Hap.

"Not mine." declared Bert flatly.

Hap shot him a contemptuous look, but there was no time to argue. Hap took his own pole, and inserted it under the axle. He put his weight on it, while Bert ran the car in reverse. The pole cracked, but didn't break. The car slid slowly off like a riverboat leaving a mud bank.

"You cracked your pole," said Bert.

"What's that to you?" Hap snapped. "Let's go."

But going wasn't so easy. Something had happened to the steering gear. The little bus had to be fought every inch of the way. It was man-killing work, which raised the devil with arms and shoulders.

Bert noticed this. "Better let me take it for a while," he said. "You'll wear yourself out."

Hap kept his lips tight shut. Bert shrugged and lapsed into silence.

They barely got in under the wire. The final relay was run off while they hustled into their togs.

The fans were restless and slightly irritated from the delay as the vault was finally called. The score was, Bucks 50, Colts 48.

Coach Harper was elated; he spoke tensely to Bert. "All we need is a first place. It ought to be in the bag for you. Go out and get it!"

There were six men in the event. Dinney was the Colts' ace vaulter, with Hawks and Viner offering little threat. Boles was the third man for the Bucks.

The trainer worked feverishly on Hap's arms and shoulders as Hap sat on the bench beside the standards. Hap passed the first three jumps, stalling for time to rest his weary body. He came in when the bar reached eleven three.

NOR did he get in any too soon. He missed his first trial rather alarmingly, and barely skinned across on the second. It wasn't too encouraging. Not even when Viner, of the Colts, went out at that height.

Bert and Dinney cleared eleven nine handily. That Dinney lad sure looked good, while Bert showed signs of being a trifle sluggish.

Hap, Boles and Hawks missed their first jumps. Hawks and Hap barely squirmed across on their second trial. Boles missed his second and third, eliminating himself from the event.

Hap was working under a double handicap. He was forced to admit the tiredness of his arms, but he hated like the deuce to admit the second one. He tried to forget that his pole had a crack in it somewhere, that it might give way at any moment beneath his weight. There was only one other pole on the floor that resembled his own enough for him to use it, and that was Bert's pole.

Before Hap tried the twelve-foot height, Bert approached him with the taut air of a man who had forced himself to a difficult decision.

"Look, Hap," he said with an effort; "we both know that that pole of yours is cracked. Our poles are almost identical. Better use mine."

Hap had some idea of what this offer must have cost Bert, but his own reaction was swift and definite.

"I wouldn't use your pole," he rasped, "if it was the last one on earth."

Bert's eyes hardened as he turned away. Hap, with an involuntary quiver of apprehension, walked up the runway for his first trial at the new height.

He forced his thoughts from the weakened pole and made his jump. He missed. Hawks also failed. They tried again, with no better results.

With one jump left, Hap knew the feeling of true desperation. He was thoroughly convinced that the physical, rather than the mental, handicap was to blame. He had reached the point now where he didn't care whether the pole broke or not. All he wanted was to clear the height.

It was a nice vault. Hap didn't falter an inch of the way, nor did he favor the pole for an instant. He missed by only a hair, but it was enough to retire him from the event.

He saw Hawks also go out on his final try, but it failed to lighten Hap's misery as he sat on the bench and watched Bert and Dinney fight it out. They battled up to thirteen feet. The crowd was tense and jumpy.

Bert tried courageously. He gave it everything he had, but he wasn't right that night. As he failed on his last attempt, the Colt fans roared with joy, while the Bucks were silent with shocked disbelief.

It was this crushed silence that actually brought Hap to his senses; gave him a quick insight into what that last vault had meant to his own rooters. He was forced to face the fact that his own troubles were petty things as compared to a victory by the Colts.

His jumbled thoughts were brought to a focus by the strong hands of the trainer massaging his shoulders from behind.

"Hey, what's this?" he demanded.

Coach Harper told him. "The score's tied, 53-53. You and Hawks have got to vault off your tie for third place. That one point will make the difference."

HAP felt something funny happening deep down inside him. It seemed incredible that he should ever want to win a third place, as badly as he wanted to win this one. He couldn't quite figure it out himself. His eyes swept the ranks of Buck fans, and someone yelled his name.

"Go get 'em, Hap, old boy! We need that point!"

That did it. Hap came from the bench with a tight grin on his face. If they wanted that point he'd get it for 'em, or bust in the attempt. He had completely forgotten that his pole was damaged.

The jump-off was started at eleven nine, the last height which both men had cleared. Hawks, realizing the prize at stake, appeared to be battling grimly against his nerves. He pressed on his first trial, missing rather badly.

Hap's nerves, on the other hand, were surprisingly calm. The rest had done his arms a lot of good. Some of the deadness seemed to have left them, and with the loss of deadness, Hap's confidence came back.

He missed by a fraction, but he was elated just the same. The whole thing could be fixed next time by setting his takeoff mark back a trifle.

Hawks missed again. Hap carefully readjusted his mark, and took plenty of time on his second jump.

The instant he soared into the air, he knew he'd struck it right. The vault was beautifully coordinated. Everything went fine until, face down across the bar, he gave his final heave.

There was the sickening sound of splintered wood. Hap felt the crossbar slap him heavily on the chest. He twisted desperately in the air, and, by some miracle, struck the mats.

But it was a heavy, bone-rattling fall that stunned him momentarily. He knew what had happened, all right. The pole had gone. But he was able to regain his feet with the aid of anxious hands.

It took him several moments to recover from the first shock of the tumble, but he finally found, to his huge relief, that everything appeared to be intact. No bones were broken, but his back seemed to be slightly wrenched. He kept this to himself.

Coach Harper was frantic with concern. He tried to rush Hap to the dressing room for a more complete checking up, but Hap would have nothing of it.

"I'm all right," he insisted stubbornly. "And I've got another jump left. I'm going to take it."

"And you're going to take it with my pole!" put in Bert grimly. "You're a game guy, and I've been a mug. Please use it, Hap. I want you to."

Even at that moment, Hap was impressed with the swiftness with which a human mind can change. His own stubbornness did a flip-flop, as well as that of Bert's.

"Sure, I'll use your pole," Hap said. "I'm lucky to have one that fits me."

HE was hardly surprised when Hawks missed his third and final trial. The Colt had a bad case of the jitters and cracked wide open under the strain.

But Hap knew he had only one vault left. His back would stand one more, and that was all. That is to say, he hoped it would. It was hurting badly now.

He measured the pole against the crossbar, stepped back and caught the pole at the proper place. He trailed it behind him as he walked up the straightaway. Once there, he tested the spring of the pole against the floor, and was relieved to find he could hardly tell it from his own.

So far so good, but he couldn't afford to fiddle around while his back was getting stiff. His preparations, therefore, were swift.

He wiped his hands against his shirt, gripped the pole, raised the point, and leaped into his stride. He hit his takeoff squarely, and knew that his run was true. The standards rushed upon him, but his eyes were glued upon the slot.

At the last instant, the pole point dropped. It thudded home dead center. Hap leaped with all the power in his legs, and felt himself being swept upward into space.

It was the first twisting shoot into the air that brought a cry of agony to his lips. He felt as if his back had broken clean in two, but it had served its purpose, now. His feet were clawing the air above the bar. He could see it beneath his eyes. It was up to his arms and shoulders to keep it there below him. He drove savagely downward with his wrists. He threw the last of his strength into that final, mighty heave.

There was a sickening moment when he thought he'd touched the bar. White-hot irons seared his back as he jerked his arms and shoulders clear. He hit the mats, a huddled heap of pain. He couldn't twist his head to see the bar. But he didn't have to. The hysterical screaming of the Buck fans told him it was still in place.

After a few minutes, Hap was able enough to make the dressing room under his own power. But Bert wouldn't let him. He tagged solemnly along to help.

"You know, guy," he said, "after that last vault of yours, I'd think a pun was the funniest thing in the world. Go ahead, deliver one."

"Well," said Hap, "de cat ate up all de liver ma was goin' to cook for supper."

"That was a real CATastrophe," said Bert.