LITMIR.BIZ

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he’d mighty soon spoil his game, but – he ran quickly over the fellows who by any possible stretch of the imagination might be considered material for Taylor’s position in the boat, and sighed. There was no one. It might be that there was one among the newer candidates who, by dint of hard work, could be fashioned into a good Number 7, but to lose Taylor for such a possibility was risky work. No, the only course was to apparently know nothing of Taylor’s underhand work, to undo it as best he could, and to at all hazards keep him in the crew. For a moment Dick wished that Taylor had been made captain.

      “Hello, Hope!”

      Dick turned to find a big, good-looking youth of eighteen with a rather florid complexion and black eyes and hair smiling broadly upon him. He was dressed in knitted tights and jersey that showed an almost perfect form, and swung a pair of boxing-gloves in one hand.

      “Hello, Taylor,” answered Dick, forcing himself to return the smile. “How are you?”

      “First-rate. Glad to see you back. Some one said you were in here, and I thought I’d look you up; wanted to ask about crew practice. When are the fellows going to report?”

      “Tuesday week.”

      “All right; I’ll be on hand. Rather a tough outlook, though, I expect.”

      “Oh, I don’t know; we’ve enough of last year’s fellows to make a good basis for the new crew. I think we’ll do pretty well.”

      Taylor shook his head sadly, then looked up and smiled brightly.

      “Well, never say die, eh? We must all do our best. You can count on me, you know, old fellow. In fact, I’ve been drumming up trade already; persuaded quite a bunch of chaps to report. The trouble is that they don’t seem to think it’s worth while; seem to be cock-sure that we’ll be beaten.”

      “Do they? I haven’t heard anything of that sort. There isn’t any good reason for it, anyhow.”

      “Oh, come now, Hope, you’ll have to own up we’ve got a hard row to hoe. I wouldn’t say so to any one else, you understand, but just between ourselves, I don’t think we’ve got the ghost of a show.”

      “Well,” answered Dick smilingly, “all the more reason for hard work. And for goodness’ sake, don’t let the fellows hear you talking that way.”

      “Me? I guess not,” protested Taylor. “I know better than that, I hope! Well, I’m going to have a bout with Miller; see you again.”

      As the other turned and crossed the floor, Dick became possessed of an almost overwhelming desire to follow him and call him to account; to have it out with him then and there, and, if necessary, to – to – His fists clenched themselves and he set his teeth together. He was glad when Taylor passed from sight. Turning again to the weights he seized the cords and for many minutes the irons bumped and banged up and down in the slides as though – well, as though some one thereabouts was hopping mad.

      CHAPTER V

      THE INDOOR MEETING

      The gymnasium was brilliantly lighted, and the seats that had been placed under the balconies were well filled, for, despite the inclemency of the weather, the town folks had turned out in force for the indoor meeting. The floor had been cleared of standards and bars, while ropes, rings, and trapezes had been relegated to the dim recesses of the arching roof. A running track had been roped off on the main floor, with inclined platforms at the corners of the hall to aid the runners at the turns, while the regular track above was turned into a temporary gallery from which the fellows who were not going to compete – and there were about a hundred and fifty of them – viewed the fun, leaning far over the railing, laughing, shouting, and singing excitedly. The four classes had gathered each to itself as far as was possible; the seniors on the left, the upper middle class on the right, the lower middle at one end of the hall and the juniors at the other. In front of them long draperies of class colors festooned the railing, and class challenged class with cheers and songs, and the Hillton band struggled bravely with a popular march.

      The trial heats in several of the events had already been run off, and in the middle of the floor a number of contestants were putting a canvas-covered twelve-pound shot with varying success when Stewart Earle, accompanied by Trevor Nesbitt, left the dressing-room, and pushing their way through the narrow aisles between the rows of chairs, at last reached the former’s father and mother, who, in company with a tall and slender boy of sixteen, occupied seats next to the improvised barrier that divided audience from running track.

      “I want you to know Trevor Nesbitt,” said Stewart. “Nesbitt, my mother and father. And that little boy beyond there is Master Carl Gray.” Trevor shook hands with a small, middle-aged gentleman in sober black, who peered upward at him in a manner that suggested near-sightedness, and with a lady somewhat younger than her husband, whose plain but kind face and sweet voice at once won his heart. As Gray was quite beyond reach of his hand, he merely accorded that youth a smiling nod. Stewart was still talking.

      “You remember, mother, I told you that Nesbitt was going to run in the two hundred and twenty yards, don’t you? Well, the funny part of it is that we ran a dead heat in the first trial! I guess I’m a goner already.” He ended with a smile that only partly concealed his uneasiness.

      His mother smiled from him to Trevor.

      “Then you two boys will run together?” she asked.

      “Yes, ma’am,” answered Trevor. “There’s five of us left for the final.”

      “That’s very nice,” she replied, “for if Stewart is beaten he will not feel so badly if you are the winner, will you, dear?”

      Trevor muttered something about there being no danger of his winning, while Stewart answered gaily: “But you’re leaving the other three chaps out of the game, mother; perhaps one of them will beat us both.”

      “No fear,” said Carl Gray; “Dunlop’s a stiff, Wharton isn’t in your class, Stew, and as for Milkam, well, I think you can beat him out all right at a hop; so it’s between you and Nesbitt, and may the best man win.”

      “That’s right,” said Mr. Earle, nodding his head approvingly. “If your friend is a better runner than you, Stewart, he should win, of course. When do you race?” He held a program up to his eyes and scowled in an endeavor to decipher the lines.

      “In about twenty minutes, I guess. Let me see, father.” Stewart took the program. “‘Twenty-yard dash, junior; twenty-yard dash, senior; putting twelve-pound shot; running high jump; one-mile run; pole vault; sixty-yard hurdle; eight-hundred-and-eighty-yard run; two-hundred-and-twenty-yard dash; relay race, one mile, lower middle class versus junior class; relay race, one mile, senior class versus upper middle class.’ Well, you can’t tell by this, I guess; they’ll just pull off the events when they feel like it.”

      “All out for the eight hundred and eighty yards,” cried a voice across the building.

      “There, see?” said Stewart. “That event’s down after the hurdles; you can’t tell much by the program; you never can. I wish they’d call the two hundred and twenty now, though.”

      “Getting nervous, Stew?” asked Carl Gray.

      “A little, I guess. There they come for the half mile. Look, there’s Keeler of our class; he’s one of our relay team; isn’t he a peach?”

      “A what, dear?” asked his mother.

      “A – er – well, I mean isn’t he fine?” stammered Stewart, while Carl and Trevor exchanged grins.

      “Is he? He looks from here dreadfully thin,” answered Mrs. Earle.

      “That’s partly what makes him a good runner,” explained Stewart. “He’s all muscle, scarcely any weight to carry.”

      “Well, dear, I do hope you won’t get to looking like that.”

      “Humph, I should hope not.” This from Stewart’s father. The bunch of ten runners had left the mark, and had begun their long series of tours about the track, cheered from the gallery by their fellows. “Go it, Keeler!”

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