“Well, if they need me, and I have a show. But I’m not so much good at that. Did you ever have a try at ’em, Frank?”
“Yes, I used to do some jumping, and occasionally a pole vault.”
“Listen to Mr. Modesty!” blurted out Sid. “Why, fellows, he holds the Western amateur record for the broad jump! Twenty feet one inch—and Sheran only did six and a half inches better,” and Sid rapidly turned to the pages of an athletic almanac, where records were given. “He ran, too. Beat in the mile contest.”
“Did you?” cried Tom. “And you never told us.”
“Well, it was sort of luck,” spoke Frank modestly. “I did my best, but that day there weren’t very many contestants. I beat ’em all, but, as I said it was luck.”
“Luck nothing!” grumbled Phil. “Why don’t you own up to it that broad jumping is your specialty.”
“Well, it is, in a way. I like to run better, though. I’d be glad if we did have some track athletics at Randall.”
“How about Pete Backus?” asked Tom with a laugh.
“Oh—Grasshopper,” cried Phil. “I suppose he’ll go in for the jump, too.”
“The more the merrier,” commented Frank. “But does any one know anything definite about this?”