Ellis looked a little shamefaced. "Well," he answered, "I did try it, Mr. Fenton, but I couldn't seem to get the knack, so I dropped it. It didn't come natural, somehow."
The master smiled. "How long did you keep at it?" he asked.
Ellis considered. "Oh, quite a while," he answered. "A week, I guess, anyway."
Mr. Fenton's smile broadened. "I think I told you, Dave," he said, "before vacation, that you mustn't get discouraged too soon. It's one of the hardest things in the world when you've once acquired your form in an event, to try to alter it. I know, in my day, I went through the experience. And it took me six months before I began to reap the advantage of the change. Here's a more modern instance, too. I was talking only this summer with the best pole-vaulter at Yale, and he told me that to change from the old-fashioned style of vaulting to the new had meant, for him, nearly a year of steady, monotonous work, with the bar scarcely higher than his head, before he felt satisfied that the knack was so thoroughly a part of him that he couldn't miss it if he tried. Then he put his knowledge into practice, and a thirteen-foot man was the result. So a week wasn't so very long, comparatively, Dave."
Ellis shrugged his shoulders. "Well, I can't jump anyway," he responded. "I'm going to get the agony over with. I'll have to make up what I lose here in the hammer."
The bar was raised, two inches at a time, until four feet ten was reached. Here Ellis missed twice, and just managed to get over in safety on his last try. He had plainly reached his limit, and at four eleven made three disastrous failures. He shook his head ruefully. "I can't jump," he repeated. "It's no good my trying."
Mr. Fenton figured the result. "Forty-two points," he announced. "That brings you up to a hundred and seventy-two. But if you'll practice steadily at the other style, Dave, and not try to do too much at first, until you've really learned the knack, you can jump three or four inches higher, I'm sure. However, never mind that now. The hurdles are next, and I think you'll make a better showing there."
Putnam and Allen had been setting out the hurdles on the track. To Dick, they looked terribly formidable. Ten of them in a row, each three and a half feet high, placed ten yards apart, with fifteen yards of clear running at start and finish. "Gracious," he thought to himself, "how can he ever get over all those without tripping. This Pentathlon looks like a hard proposition to me."
Scarcely, however, had Ellis cleared the first hurdle than Dick felt his enthusiasm return. It was all so different from what he had imagined--the whole race was so pretty and graceful to watch. When Putnam fired the pistol Ellis dashed away at full speed; then, nearing the first hurdle, leaped forward, his body crouched, his legs gathered under him, cleared it handsomely in his stride, and was off for the next. Dick felt like shouting aloud, as Ellis swept down toward the finish. Three strides between each hurdle, and then that quick forward bound; Dick found himself catching the rhythm of it. One--two--three--up! One--two--three--up! Ellis cleared the last hurdle and flashed past the tape.
The three timers consulted, then Mr. Fenton announced: "Eighteen four; fifty-two points; that's a total of two hundred and twenty-four." He figured for a moment with pencil and paper, then turned to Ellis, as he came walking back toward the finish. "First-rate, Dave," he said. "A hundred and forty feet with the hammer, now, and you'll beat Johnson's total. Do you think you can do it?"