“Well, we’re counting on him to win the mile run for us,” said Holly. “He’s the best we’ve struck yet, even if he is loaded to the muzzle with conceit. Come on, now, you fellows, get busy.”
“Did those new hurdles come?” asked Frank Simpson, who was much interested in the proposed one hundred and twenty yard hurdle race.
“Yes, I’ll have them out on the path pretty soon,” replied Holly. “They’re fine, and it only takes a few seconds to change from one height to another. See how you like ’em.”
[Soon the athletic field at Randall presented a busy scene.] Lads in all sorts of undress uniform, from running trunks to jerseys and sweaters, were at practice.
Here, in the seven-foot circle, Phil was balancing himself for the hammer throw, while off to one side Tom was adjusting the toe board in order to put the sixteen pound shot. Frank Simpson was assisting one of the janitors in setting up the new hurdles, and Sid was testing his vaulting pole.
Dutch Housenlager, whose big frame and mighty muscles gave him an advantage few others enjoyed, was juggling with the fifty-six pound weight.
“I’m going to do better than twenty-five feet to-day,” he declared, and forthwith he swung up the big iron ball with its triangular handle and heaved it.
“Twenty-five feet eight inches!” announced a measurer.
“Hurray!” yelled Sid.