“Oh, he did?”
“Yes. You know Morgan was a wonderful jumper at college. Merry was the only man who ever defeated him, and that was by not more than an inch or so. I think he’s in perfect form. Our trip has done him good. He was run down when Frank took hold of him in New York last fall; but he has built up wonderfully. He says Merry saved his life.”
There was a hush now, as Merry walked out to the starting point.
“’Rah for Merriwell!” cried an enthusiast.
“That’s Grafter!” laughed Manton, turning to look at the stand. “He expects to win a thousand off me to-day. I knew better than to bet on the jumping, and I have him caught on the pole vaulting, for he loses no matter what happens, if Merriwell does not win. Merriwell may have a broken neck before the day is over.”
“I hope he gets it,” said Frost, in his cold-blooded manner.
“You can’t hope so any more than I do.”
“He’s going to make his first trial. Watch.”
Frank toed the starting line. He crouched and seemed to gather himself. Then he sped along the run, every muscle tense, a look of resolution on his handsome face. He came up to the mark in perfect stride and launched himself into the air.
The manner in which he sailed over the ground caused more than one witness to gasp with surprise and admiration. His feet were drawn well under him, and at precisely the proper moment he launched them forward. He struck perfectly and came up without a “bobble.”