“And the try-outs?” asked Sid. “I’d like to know if I’ve got to train to the minute.”
“We all have!” exclaimed Holly. “Not a man at Randall can afford to grow stale. Hello, there comes Shambler. I’m hoping a lot from him. If he pulls down the mile run for us it will help a lot. Then we’re depending on Dutch in the weight contest, and—well, but what’s the use of talking—we’re counting on every man in Randall. We want to win all the events if we can.”
“And we’ll be there with the goods!” declared Frank Simpson.
“Well, everybody on his mark!” went on Holly. “I think the final try-outs will be held in a few days, and then we’ll know who we’ll have to depend on specially. Of course there may be changes later on, but we want to get a line on where we stand.”
For the next few days practice went on unceasingly. From early morning until dusk fell some of the boys were out on the field, running, leaping, springing, using the pole, testing themselves in the broad or high jump, taking hurdles or throwing weights or hammers. And the four inseparables did their share.
Shambler, too, was active. He was rapidly forging to the front as one of the best athletes that had ever worn the “R” of Randall, and though many did not care much for him, even his enemies had to admit that he was likely to bring honor to the college.
“That was mighty white of you, old man, not to give me away,” he said to Tom, one day, after the rumor of the demand made by the proctor had become quite well known. “I’ll not forget it, either, I assure you.”
“All right—don’t get caught—that’s all,” was Tom’s not very gracious reply.