“Well, try him some more,” said Freund, the captain of the team.
“I can’t afford it,” was the dismal answer. “It isn’t any use, either. I don’t believe the man did me any real good. He showed me how to do some problems and helped me along with translations, but he didn’t seem to strike the weak spot. I guess what I need is a new head. I’d swap my legs for one any day.”
In his present state, Strong was unmanageable, and his friends abandoned him to his own unpleasant reflections. With hands plunged in pockets and head sunk between shoulders, the discouraged fellow walked slowly away, viciously kicking an occasional pebble from his path.
Around the corner of Carter Hall, Salter appeared. He glanced bashfully at Strong slouching along moody and ill-humored, and catching the dragging step, loitered along at the runner’s side.
“The track ought to be in fine condition after the rain,” began Salter, in a high-pitched voice that suited well his figure and gait.
“I suppose so,” growled Strong, his tone indicating a decided lack of interest in both questioner and question.
Salter, rebuffed, tried to explain. “Don’t they say a hard rain is great for a track after it has been well smoothed and rolled in the spring?”
“Perhaps they do,” Strong replied wearily. “It don’t matter much to me anyway. They’ve held me up again with their confounded probations.”
“Same subjects?” asked Salter.
“Yes, German and Latin,—two nightmares! I can’t pass ’em if I stay here a hundred years.”