All was astir at Randall, and so, too, in the other colleges. For, though the games did not take place until afternoon, there was much yet to do, many final arrangements to make, and the candidates, nervous as young colts, wanted a last try-out.
Running and jumping shoes had to be looked after, tights and shirts in which were rents, or from which buttons were missing, were being repaired by the rough and ready surgery of the college lads.
“This is the time when I wish we were at Fairview,” remarked Tom, as he gingerly handled a needle, repairing a tear in his shirt.
“Why?” demanded Sid.
“So I could ask some of the girls to fix these rips. I never can get used to a thimble.”
“Same here,” agreed Phil. “I shove it through with a nail file.”
“Threading a needle gets my goat,” confessed Sid. “Some authorities say to hold the thread still, and shove the needle at it. Other text books claim that the only proper way is to stick the needle upright in your knee and, after shutting your eyes, keep poking the thread at it until you make a hit. Then knot it and proceed as directed.”
“I never can get the right kind of a point on the thread,” admitted Frank. “It’s always too long, and then it curls up, and shoots around the needle like a drop curve, or else it’s too short, and blunt, and breaks the eye out of the needle.”
“There’s some kind of a thimble, that you stick your needle in, and it has a funnel so you can sort of drop your thread through it, and get it in the hole sooner or later,” remarked Tom. “Guess I’ll get one.”