“That new fellow, Shambler, seems to be doing some good jumping,” remarked Phil to Tom, as the two were doing a little jog around the track.
“Yes, I wonder where’s he from, anyhow? I never heard much about him while he was at Harkness—I wonder if he really is from that college?”
“Give it up. What difference does it make, anyhow? Harkness was a small college, and her records didn’t count. But Shambler sure can jump. He’s as good at the high as he is at the broad. There he goes for another try, and they’ve got it up to the four-foot-ten mark I guess.”
“Four eleven,” remarked Phil, who could read the marks on the standards. “If he does that he’s a good one. The record is five feet seven.”
“There—he did it and a couple of inches over,” cried Tom, as Shambler made a magnificent leap. “Say, we need him all right.”
“That’s so. I only wish he was a little more companionable. He trains too much in with that Boxer Hall sporting set, to suit me.”
“Yes, too bad. But it can’t be helped. Now he’s going to try the broad. Let’s watch him.”
Shambler came up to the take-off on the run, and shot into the air. Forward like a stone from a catapult he went and unable to recover himself he crashed full into Tom, who was standing watching.
“Look out!” cried Shambler, as he hung on to Tom to avoid falling. “What are you trying to do, anyhow? Queer my jump? I’d have broken my record, only for you!” He spoke in angry tones.
“I’m sorry,” began Tom, “I didn’t——”