“This is about as cheerful as a funeral procession, Chip,” muttered Clancy.
“Everybody’s mightily interested in the race, for all they have bottled up their feelings,” Merriwell answered.
“Maybe,” was the skeptical response, “but it takes a lot of rooters to stir up the enthusiasm. This looks about as sporty as the track event of a deaf-and-dumb school. That Lenning carries himself well. He walks with a spring that leads you to think he ‘feels his feet.’ But I don’t like the cut of his jib a little bit.”
“Nor I. His eyes are shifty, and his face doesn’t inspire much confidence.”
“The old colonel is about as hilarious as he would be trying to hunt up a nephew in the morgue. Whoo! I’ll go dippy in a minute if somebody doesn’t yell. Guess I’ll tear off a whoop myself.”
He suited his action to the word, but it was a melancholy effort. No one joined in with him, not even Merry or Ballard. From across the course, the Gold Hillers gave him a startled look of disapproval.
“Once will do, thanks,” muttered Clancy. “I’m frosted so badly I’ve got chilblains. Why doesn’t that starter set ’em off?”
The words were hardly out of Clancy’s mouth before Beman shouted: “On your mark!”
Both sprinters dropped in well-nigh perfect style.
“Set!”