Ellis laughed, well pleased. "I told you I'd improved, Mr. Fenton," he said, "and I can beat that, too. I guess that's going to make Johnson's thirty-four feet look pretty sick, all right."
He seemed wholly unconscious of the disagreeable boastfulness of his tone. Allen, however, threw Dick a significant glance, which seemed to find a reflection in the rather grim expression on Mr. Fenton's face. The master looked as though he wished he had withheld his words of well-meant praise. "Perhaps, Dave," he said quietly, "Johnson may show improvement, too. It's better to overrate the other man than to underrate him."
If he intended to throw any reproof into his tone it was lost on Ellis, who seemed, indeed, scarcely to heed what the master was saying. "Throw her back, Jim," he called to Putnam. "I'm going to get her out for fair this time."
Putnam rolled back the shot. Ellis grasped it, balanced as before, knitted his brows, stiffened his muscles, and then, with every atom of strength at his command, delivered it. The result was disappointing. Something seemed lacking, and Putnam rose from making his measurement with a shake of his head. "Not so good," he called. "Thirty-seven nine."
Ellis turned to Mr. Fenton. "That was queer," he said disappointedly. "I thought I was going to lose it that time. Wonder what the trouble was."
Mr. Fenton smiled. "You tried too hard," he said. "That's one thing to remember, Dave, in the shot. The more you grit your teeth, and brace yourself for a great attempt, the worse you're apt to do. On your first try you stood up to it naturally, with your muscles relaxed; but on that last put your right arm was so rigid there was no chance to get your body into it. Now make this next try like the first one; only when you land from your hop, then come smashing right through with it; put all your strength on, just in that one second, and we'll see if we don't get results."
Dick laughed to himself. Here, he thought, was a modern master with a vengeance. What would the folks at home think of a teacher, renowned for giving "the best English course outside of college," vigorously telling one of his pupils to come "smashing right through" with a sixteen-pound shot. And yet, while Dick smiled, he felt his respect for Mr. Fenton in nowise diminished, but, indeed, rather increased, by seeing him thus display his knowledge of track and field. For the master, while always in friendly contact with his boys, never for a moment overstepped the proper bounds of the relationship. He was a hundred times more their friend, yet no whit less the master. Dick could scarcely have reasoned it out, step by step, yet with instinctive judgment, he found himself echoing Allen's words of a few moments before, "Mr. Fenton's all right."
Ellis, with a nod of comprehension, made ready for his third try. He started slowly, and then, as the master had suggested, put forth all his strength in one tremendous lunge. The effort was successful; the put was a splendid one. Putnam hurried to the spot, measured with care, and then triumphantly announced: "Thirty-nine, seven and a quarter."
Mr. Fenton nodded. "Very good, indeed," he said cordially. "This is a fine start, Dave." He drew forth his note-book from his pocket, calculated a moment, and then added: "Sixty-four points; that makes one hundred and thirty, in two events. This looks like a record."
With the trials in the high jump, however, Ellis' chances appeared less favorable. Even to Dick's inexperienced eye, it was evident that the big full-back was never cut out for a jumper. He ran slowly at the bar, from the side, clearing it awkwardly, with very little bound or spring. Mr. Fenton shook his head. "Still the old style?" he queried. "I thought you were going to try running straight at the bar in your vacation, Dave?"