With the morning however, came resolve.
"What's the use," he muttered as he lathered his chin before the little square mirror tilted against the window at the height of his eyes.
He would run once more—only once. And then——
Could she have meant it, he wondered, when she told him she would cut him from her list of friends if he failed to break the record. He smiled at the soaped reflection of his long, thin face in the little mirror.
Ten seconds was a tiny lapse of time but it was the record. A hundred yards in ten seconds. That was ten yards a second. That was.... Well, approximately, ten feet at a stride—no, eight. A rather wide stride, to be sure, but his legs.... Now if he could stride nine feet what would that bring it? Two and two——
Bunny found himself of a sudden involved in so deep a morass of mathematics that he gave up in disgust—and cut himself.
He would make an effort—a mighty effort. Of this he was determined. It was to be his last, he mused, so it must needs be mighty. In any event if he should fail it would not mean so much; that is, so very much. Other men had failed, trying to accomplish that which heaven was determined they should not. And yet——
"If you don't break the record I'll never speak to you again as long as I live!"
The words were insistent. It was as though Wilma were there beside him, as he stood before the little dusty mirror, and sounding them over and over in his ears.
"By George!" he exclaimed aloud, "I've got to smash it; that's all, I've got to!"