“Did you see how I do my running?” he asked.
“You slide,” answered Frank; “there’s not much waste motion in lifting your feet.”
“And the way you handle your arms,” said Brad. “You’re a daisy, old top, believe me!”
“Not many sprinters go the way I go, and I’ve a hunch that the Gold Hill fellows will recognize Ellis Darrel from that alone. A lot of that crowd have seen me run dozens of times.”
“I can’t understand what in thunder’s biting those fellows, anyway,” grunted Merriwell. “Suppose there was a railroad accident, and they’ve been under the impression for months that you got your gruel in the smash-up; why don’t they believe you, when you explain about the coat, and tell them who you are?”
“They’re a lot of boneheads!” declared Brad; “or else,” he qualified, “they’re taking their cue from Lenning.”
“That’s the size of it,” said Darrel. “The colonel’s a pretty big man, over in Gold Hill, and some of that crowd would lick Jode’s shoes if he told ’em to. But,” and Darrel grinned, “you seemed rather anxious to have the race come off, Merriwell?”
“It was the best thing that could happen, right at that stage of our dispute with the Gold Hillers,” Merriwell answered. “We needed something to ease up the tension, and turn our thoughts to something else beside the camping site. This race dropped in pretty pat. But we’ve got to cut out this chin-chin and practice a few more starts. On your mark!”
For perhaps a dozen times Merriwell got Darrel away from the line. The last two or three times constituted about as finished a performance as Merriwell had ever seen.
“You’re all the mustard, Darrel,” said Frank. “I don’t think there’s any chance for improvement. I’ve started you from ‘set’ all the way from an eye wink to ten seconds, and you haven’t made a bobble. You’re in the way of becoming a crack man at this game.”