“Let me dream on,” requested Sid, drowsily.
“Tumble out!” shouted the inexorable Kindlings. “This is your last chance. It’s a nice cool morning for a run or a jump, and you’ll be all the better for it. Come on.”
So, perforce, the substitutes who were to fill in for Frank and Shambler “tumbled out,” literally, for they were half asleep. But a shower bath, a brisk rub, and the cheerful talk of Holly and Kindlings put new life into them, and soon they were at vigorous practice. They did better than on the previous day.
“If we only had another week, or even three days, I wouldn’t be a bit worried,” declared Holly at the conclusion of the trials. “They’re both doing fine, Kindlings.”
“I don’t s’pose we can get an extension?”
“I wouldn’t have the nerve to ask for it.”
“Then we’ll have to stand or fall as we are.”
“That’s it—hang together or hang separately as Patrick Henry, or some of the ancients, said,” quoted Holly.
The excitement over the unexpected charges had somewhat died away, and Randall was more like herself. The withdrawal of Shambler had created a little flurry, but not much. No one seemed to know where he had gone, and no word came as to what to do with his effects.
As for Frank, he was saddened, but not downcast. He announced his intention of taking up his case with the Amateur Athletic Union as soon as the games were completed.