Dick Randall, the Young Athlete

by Ellery H. Clark

"Why," said Putnam; "it happened like this. There's an English course in college, you know, where they have to write a theme every day. We have the same thing here, for a month, second half year--English Fourteen. Well, Ned Brewster was talking to a crowd of fellows one day about a letter his brother had written him from college, telling quite a lot about this daily theme business--all about the good ones, and the funny ones, and a lot of things like that. Ned never thought anything more about it, but a little while after that Dave came to him, and asked him if he didn't think it would be an awfully good scheme to get Ned's brother to have copies of all his themes made and sent down to Ned, so they'd be all solid for that month of English Fourteen. Bright idea, wasn't it?"

Dick whistled. "Well," he ejaculated; "the mean skunk! What nerve! What did Ned say?"

Putnam grinned. "Not very much," he answered. "He told me he thought at first Dave was joking, but when he got it through his head that he was really in earnest I guess his language was quite picturesque. Dave hates him like poison now, and it makes it hard for Ned, being captain of the track team, you know, and Dave being the star athlete. It gives Dave all sorts of mean little chances to try to make the fellows think Ned isn't being square about the work, and all that sort of thing. You know what I mean. He keeps grumbling all the time, and saying that Ned shows favoritism to fellows he likes, and a lot of rot like that. And it hurts, too, because there are always some fellows foolish enough to believe it, and the first thing you know, you've got a split in the class. However, we're none of us perfect, so I suppose we can't be too hard on Dave. Maybe we can elect Allen, anyway. Something may happen in the next six weeks. I know one thing, anyway; Dave's got to hustle like a good one if he means to keep up in his work. I understand that he's right on the danger line now, and the mid tears are always pretty stiff, harder than the finals, I always thought. If he shouldn't pass, he wouldn't be eligible for the presidency--and as far as that goes, he wouldn't be eligible for athletics either. Wouldn't that raise the deuce? I suppose the track team would crumple like a piece of paper without Dave in the weights and the Pentathlon. Golly, though, that reminds me, Dick. Ned Brewster says you're the coming man on the track. Is that straight? Did you really do five six in the gym?"

Dick nodded. "Well, yes," he answered; "I believe I did. Only once, though. You know how it is. A fellow will get in a lucky jump, once in a while."

Putnam laughed. "Don't be so ashamed of it," he said good-naturedly. "That's a corking good jump for any one. Some fellows go plugging along half their lives, and don't get that high. Who can beat it, besides Johnson?"

Dick pondered. "Well, I can't think of any one," he said at last; "still, there may be a lot of fellows I don't know about--"

Putnam cut him short. "Oh, nonsense," he cried; "don't we get all the gossip from the school papers, and from the fellows we see? Didn't we know, the very same day, when Johnson broke the Clinton record, that time he did five eight and a half? No, sir, you're good for second place in the high, in the big meet, and that means your 'F.' What more do you want than that? Your first year at the game."

Dick was silent. Finally he said hesitatingly, "Well, Jim, I know I'm a fool, but I'd like awfully well to have some show for the Pentathlon."

Putnam looked at him in amazement. "Well, for Heaven's sake!" he ejaculated. "You don't want a great deal, do you? With Dave and Johnson both in the game? Why, where would you fit with them, Dick?"

Randall reddened a trifle. "Oh, well, probably I wouldn't," he returned; "but you see, they've both got their weak points. Dave's mighty good in the weights--I couldn't touch him there--but then in the jump he's really poor, and in the hundred and hurdles he's no more than fair. And Johnson's a great jumper, and a good man at the hundred and hurdles, but he isn't up in the weights, by a long shot. I don't mean," he added quickly, "that I think I can beat either of them now; maybe I never can beat them; but they could be beaten, just the same, easier than people think. It isn't as if either of them was so good that you'd know right away it was no use tackling them; and I don't know about Johnson, but I don't think Dave's going to improve a great deal on what he did when school began. He's really pretty stupid about athletics, just the way he is about books. He can't learn the knack of that high jump, to save himself. No, they could be beaten, all right, if a fellow could only get good enough."