“Oh, well, warm weather will come, sooner or later,” declared Tom with a yawn, flinging a book behind the ancient couch. “How are things working out?”
“Pretty good, I guess,” replied Dutch. “Holly and Kindlings have charge of the arrangements. It’s practically decided that we’ll be one of a four-sided league. The only point is that of deciding what events to put on the program. Some want one, and some another.”
“Think Randall has any chance?” asked Phil.
“Sure,” declared Dutch. “Shambler is showing up well in the runs, and Frank here is jumping his head off, and going some with the shot and hammer. You fellows want to perk-up.”
“Oh, there’s time enough,” remarked Tom. “So Shambler is doing good work; eh?”
“Fine. I didn’t think he could. Some of the fellows seemed to think he had a yellow streak in him, but it isn’t showing, and I don’t believe it will.”
And then, it came to Tom, more forcibly than ever, that Shambler did have a yellow streak in him—the yellow streak of cowardice.
“And if it comes out at the last minute, it will be bad for Randall,” thought Tom. “But I promised to keep still, and I will. If anything happens—well, the rest of us will have to make it up, and cover it—for the honor of Randall.”
“Oh I say. I can’t stand this!” cried Dutch at length. “I’m getting the blues. Come on out, fellows. I’ve got a surprise for you. I’ve been holding it up my sleeve, thinking you’d suggest something, but, as long as you haven’t, I’m going to spring something. Chuck the books!”
“What is it?” asked Sid, glancing up in anticipation.