[CHAPTER XXXI]
AT THE GAMES
It was a day to be proud of—a day when nature was at her best. The sun shone, the sky was cloudless, the grass was green, and there was just enough wind to make it cool, without endangering any such delicate operation as putting a fifty-six pound weight, or interfere with an athlete hurling himself over the crossbar in the pole vault.
“Say, things couldn’t be better!” cried Tom, as he jumped out of bed, and stood at the open window, breathing in the balmy air. “It’s a good thing Randall’s luck postponed the games a week.”
“Feeling fit?” asked Frank.
“As a fiddle. Say, old man, I wish you were with us,” and Tom put his arm around the Big Californian.
“Oh, well, you’ll win without me, and maybe I’ll be with you—next time,” replied Frank, with the semblance of a laugh. None but himself knew the bitterness of his heart, and how much of a strain it had been for him to step aside, “for the honor of Randall,” when he was sure, in his own mind, that he was in the right, and that not a blot of professionalism stained his record.
“Come on, Sid,” urged Tom, as he pulled the blankets off his still slumbering chum. “As the old school readers used to say: ‘The sun is up, and we are up, too.’ Tumble out, and get your lungs full of good air. Then we’ll have a bit of breakfast and do some practice.”
“Um!” grunted Sid, and he rolled out.