"Twenty-two feet ten and three-fourths inches," called the judge, showing in his voice an awakening interest in the event.
Hotchkiss, stung at the thought that the Freshman had beaten his best mark, showed very plainly in his preparations for his trials that he meant to wipe him out. He moved his marks a trifle, stepped the distance carefully, and then, seemingly satisfied, walked slowly to the end of the runway.
"He's peeved," remarked Turner.
"What difference does it make to him anyway, he's sure to be taken, isn't he?" inquired David.
"Hotchkiss is one of those chaps who hate to be anything but first."
"He has a head like a rhinocer-hoss," said the Codfish. As he spoke, Hotchkiss turned at the far end of the runway. Every eye was on him now, which was not at all displeasing to him. Down the runway he came like a race horse, his gaze fixed steadily on the take-off block where the supreme effort was to be made. But so great was his speed in his endeavor to eclipse all previous efforts that he struck the block badly, sprang in the air, lost his direction and landed partly in and partly out of the pit in an awkward straddle. Unable to keep his balance he fell over sideways on the hard ground and lay there groaning.
In an instant a half score of bystanders had run to the aid of Hotchkiss. He was picked up and set upon his feet, half stunned, but when he attempted to take a step, he sank down groaning.
The trainer sprang to the side of the injured jumper. "Where is it?" he demanded.
"My ankle," moaned Hotchkiss. "I twisted it in some way. Here, let me try it again." But try as he might, he could not bear a particle of weight on the injured leg, and had to be carried to the Locker Building in the arms of two of his teammates.
Immediately a buzz of excited conversation rose.