And then Randall grimly set to work on her uphill climb.
That it was to be an uphill climb was soon made very evident. Whether it was because of nervousness, or real inability to make good, or because they were so suddenly called on without adequate preparation, was not made evident, but certain it was that neither Tom nor Sid gave brilliant performances in the trials that followed. Tom’s time was far behind that of Shambler in the mile run, and, though it was only a matter of seconds, everyone knew that seconds would count.
Sid, too, seemed to have lost his natural ability to cover ground in the big jump, though he was by far the best man available after Frank’s disbarment.
“This won’t do,” declared Holly, and though his heart was sinking, he kept up a bold front. “Get at it, boys,” he urged the two on whom so much depended. “You can make good yet! All you need is to think so.”
“It’s easy enough to say,” complained Tom, who was tired from many trials.
“Say, if you don’t win, I’ll roll you in the mud so your best girl won’t speak to you for a month,” threatened Kindlings. “And, as for you, Sid, I’ll have you run out of Randall on a rail. So make good—both of you!”
“Um!” grunted Tom, disconsolately, and Sid looked at him with despair in his eyes. They were both in a bad way.
There was but one more day before the games. It dawned—or rather, to quote Holly Cross, “it clouded up beautifully” from the start. There was a chill, in the air, too.
“Tumble out!” cried Kindlings, as he banged on the door of the room where the inseparables were sleeping. “Tom—Sid, we need you for some morning practice.”
“Oh, go on away,” begged Tom.