“Oh, I’ll beat that yet,” predicted Dutch with a laugh.
Shambler came running from the gymnasium attired in his new suit. He presented an attractive figure; Tom could not help admitting that, much as he disliked the newcomer. And certainly Shambler could run. He had a certain confident air, and a manner about him that counted for much.
The practice went on, and Holly Cross and Kindlings, who had been voted into permanent trainers and managers interchangeably, watched with keen eyes the performances of all the lads.
“There’s some good stuff here,” remarked Holly.
“Yes,” agreed Kindlings, “if they’ll only practice and keep at it. It’s quite a while to the games though, and any one of them may go stale. This isn’t like baseball or football. If we don’t win one game on the diamond or gridiron, we have another chance. But we won’t in the all-around contests. It’s do or die the first time.”
“Why, you aren’t worried, are you?”
“No, but Boxer Hall would give her head to beat us, and we can’t take any chances. Say, just hold the watch on Shambler, will you? I think he’s hitting it up to-day.”
Holly walked over to the cinder track, where Shambler was about to finish his mile run. As he breasted the tape Holly pressed his stop watch.
“Time!” panted Shambler.
“Six minutes, fifty-six seconds,” reported Holly.