“Make yourself a critic; pick out eight or ten fellows to watch especially. In football or tennis or running. It doesn’t much matter. If they find you’re taking an intelligent interest in what they’re doing, they’ll be pleased. Westby, for instance, is running; he’s entered for the hundred yards in the fall games,—likely to win it, too. Westby’s your greatest trial, isn’t he? Then why don’t you make a point of watching him?—Not too obviously, of course. Come round with me; I’m coaching some of the runners for the next half-hour, and then Collingwood wants me to give his ends a little instruction.”
“Dear me! If I’d only been an athlete instead of a student in college!” sighed Irving whimsically.
“You don’t need to be much of an athlete to coach; I never was so very much,” confided Barclay. “But there are things you can learn by looking on.” They had reached the edge of the track; Barclay clapped his hands. “No, no, Roberts!” The boy who was practising the start for a sprint looked up. “You mustn’t reel all over the track that way when you start; you’d make a foul. Keep your elbows in, and run straight.”
Irving followed Barclay round and tried to grasp the significance of his comments. Dennison came by at a trot.
“Longer stride, Dennison! Your running’s choppy! Lengthen out, lengthen out! That’s better.—I have it!”
Barclay turned suddenly to Irving.
“What?”
“The thing for you to do. We’ll make you an official at the track games next week. That will give you a standing at once—show everybody that you are really a keen follower of sport—or want to be.”
“But what can I do? I suppose an official has to do something.”
“You can be starter. That will put you right in touch with the fellows that are entered.”