A group of lads were gathered about a table on which were several sporting papers, containing a number of photographs of athletes, and showing scenes at various meets.
“I tell you fellows what it is,” put in Shambler, who seemed to have gotten very much at home in the few weeks he had been at Randall, “practice is the only thing that will help us win the championship. I know, for I’ve been through the mill. We’ve got to practice more.”
“Did you do it at Harkness?” asked Phil.
“Yes, some, but I’ve trained by myself a lot,” and there was a trace of boastfulness in his voice. “I’m going to make the mile run,” he added.
“And win?” asked Sid, half sarcastically, turning over a pile of papers.
“Sure,” assented Shambler. “I—er—” Suddenly he reached out and picked a paper from amid the pile. He seemed to be nervously folding it in his hands. “I used to be a good runner,” he went on, “and there’s no reason why I can’t do as well again. I think I’d rather do that than be in the high or broad jump. But of course——”
“All the candidates will have a try-out,” put in Kindlings. “The best one wins, and he ought to be willing to do the best that’s in him for Randall.”
“Of course,” assented Shambler, and he seemed glad of the interruption, still nervously folding the paper.
A few minutes later he left the room rather hurriedly, and, some time after that, Phil began looking through the pile of illustrated papers for a certain one.