The Champions
I
"You can't do it, Nibs,—you can't do it—you may have the spurt speed, but you haven't got the wind."
"Rot—why, you don't know what you're talking about, Jimmy; I can beat him forty ways. Look at those legs!"
And the lank creature thrust them into view and patted them affectionately between the knee and the hip.
"Oh, I know you've got the legs, Nibs," was the indifferent reply, "it's the wind you're shy of."
"What does wind amount to in a hundred yards, I'd like to know? All a fellow needs is a good breath at the pistol. A good one will carry him over the string." The speaker leaned across the table; "Now, on the square, Jimmy, don't you think I can beat Billy Shaw?" he asked eagerly.
The young man opposite, tilting back his chair, eyed his companion critically from under half-dropped lids. He flecked the ash from his cigarette, scrupulous that it should not dust his clothes, and said slowly, and more as though by way of encouragement than expressive of an opinion—"Well, of course, there's a chance."
Nibs smiled broadly, at that, and settled back, apparently quite satisfied.
"I knew you were joking," he said.