“Yes, if I can depend on it. The way I figure out is this. We’ve fairly got ’em all on some things. But not the mile run and the broad jump. Of course something might go wrong with the dash, or the hammer and weight throws, but I don’t think so.”
“What’s the matter with the run and jump?”
“Well, if these figures from Exter are true, they’ve got Tom by about three seconds, and Sid by two inches. But I think Exter has been too optimistic in giving the ‘dope.’”
“Maybe they’ve gone under their records to get better odds in betting.”
“No, I don’t think so. The only one I’m really afraid of is Exter. I think we can clean up Boxer Hall and Fairview. They can’t come near us on anything except the weight throw and pole vault, and I know Phil will make good on the vault, and if Dutch doesn’t get the fifty-six over the twenty-five foot mark I’ll punch his head.”
“Then the way you figure it out, we’ve got our work cut out for us?”
“We always had, but I think now that we’ve got just a chance to win. A chance, and nothing more, for the championship. If Shambler and Frank had stayed in it would have been different, but as it is, and not to disparage Tom or Sid, we’ve got a fair chance and nothing more.”
“To quote the raven,” said Holly with a smile. “‘Nevermore,’ Mr. Poe. But I think we’ll do it, Kindlings.”
“I’m sure I hope so,” was the grave answer. “I hope so.”