Tom Parsons, who was one of the best all-around athletes at Randall, believed in doing a variety of things in order to keep himself in form. He realized that if he devoted himself exclusively to one thing he might excel in that, to the detriment of some other form of sport. He was one of the best pitchers Randall had ever sent into the box, and it had been said of him that had he devoted more time to running, pole vaulting, broad or high jumping, he could have made fine records at either. But he preferred to be a little better than the average at either one, and yet he did not want to strain himself to be a top-notcher.
“I’m just sort of going to hold myself in reserve,” he said to Holly, “and you can fill me in wherever you need me.”
“Not a bad idea,” the young manager had agreed, and so to-day Tom was practicing with the sixteen pound shot. In order to be out of the way of the others, and so that he might not be too closely watched, Tom had set the toe board some distance off. There he was heaving the shot to his heart’s content.
He was not far from a corner of the gymnasium, which building was now pretty well emptied, since nearly every lad who intended to try for a place in the games was out on the field.
As Tom went to recover the shot, after a “put” that gave him considerable satisfaction from the distance covered, he saw two figures passing behind the angle of the building. One he knew at once for that of Shambler. The other—that of a shabbily dressed man—was not familiar to him.
Since the little episode of the May walk, Tom had had no occasion to speak to Shambler, and the latter, whether or not he was aware of anything unusual, did not show any curiosity over Tom’s behavior.
As Tom heaved the shot again, the toe of his tennis shoe caught on the board, and part of the sole was ripped off.
“Serves me right for using that old pair,” mused the lad. “I’ve got another pair in my locker, I’ll put them on.”
He was rummaging among his things in the gymnasium, when he became aware of voices outside, directly under an open ventilating window. And it did not take very sharp ears to know that one of the voices was Shambler’s. Without in the least meaning to be an eavesdropper, Tom could not help hearing something of what was said.
“You don’t seem at all glad to see me,” spoke the voice of the shabby man.