"Now, Gregory, you've just got to take the mile away from Learoyd ... he's a junior ... you've just got to!... besides, if you don't ... there's Flammer has lost the broad jump ... and we won't win the class banner after all."
Learoyd was a smallish, golden-faced, downy-headed boy ... almost an albino.... I had seen him run ... he ran low to the ground, in flashes, like some sort of shore-bird.
In the class-tent, alone. Dunn had driven my class out, where they had been massaging and kneading my legs ... which trembled and tottered under me, from the excessive use they had already undergone.
I sat down and put my head between my knees, and groaned. Then I straightened out my right leg and rubbed it, because a cramp was knotting it.
"Hello, Gregory!"
The tent-flap opened. The athletic director poked his head in.
"Come on, Gregory, we're waiting for you."
"Wait a minute, Smythe ... I want to pray," I replied simply. Reverently he withdrew ... impressed ... awed....
I flung myself on my face.