"Yes, Patsy says I may be good at one or the other if I live long enough. But I haven't much hopes of myself. I'm too green."
"I'll bet you will make the best of them all," said David enthusiastically.
"Oh, come now, David, no taffy here. It's bad enough for a fellow who can do something to have a swelled head, but when a fellow can't do anything at all, it's fatal. So don't try to puff me. I won't stay and listen or I may get the big-head microbe. See you later. Don't strain yourself with those big weights. I'm responsible to your dad for your well-being. Ta, ta."
At four o'clock the next afternoon there was a sprinkling of Queen's boys, the non-athletic fellows, down on the stands, to see what the new class was likely to do for the school in the way of track athletics. Queen's had been down in the dumps in this particular line of sport for several years, and it had become almost a habit to lose to Warwick. There was always pretty good material available for the weight events, but for some singular reason no sprinters headed Queen's way. It had become noised about that a new sprinter in the person of Frank Armstrong had been turned up by Patsy, and every one wanted to see just how fast he was.
The first race to be run was the quarter in which there were seven starters. Queen's track was a quarter-mile, and the runners were to start at the middle of the back stretch, and finish down the straightaway. This gave them only one turn, and it was supposed to be easier on that account. Hillard was scratch man on this event. The new men were given various handicaps—that is, Patsy set them at points from 10 to 20 yards further along, so as to even up their speed with that of Hillard, who had won the event the year before from the best that Warwick had to offer.
"Nothing in that bunch," said a Senior as he looked the fellows over; "they're not strong enough. Look at that skinny Freshman with 20 yards handicap. I'll bet he'll die half way down the stretch."
The little chap he referred to was a slender boy of fourteen, light haired almost to whiteness, and very spindly in his shanks. He had come from some little town in the western part of the state, and was so insignificant looking that no one paid much attention to him in the fall practice. Even Patsy's eye failed to note him. His name was Brown—Tommy Brown.
After Patsy had put all his runners on their marks, he gave the usual preparatory signal for starting, and the pistol snapped. There was a rush of spectators for the end of the straightaway where the runners were to finish. Hillard, sure of himself, and moving rapidly, soon began to overhaul the inexperienced Freshmen. One by one he passed them, and as he swung into the straightaway with half the distance gone, only two were ahead of him. One of these was the fellow who had run second to Hillard the year before, and the other was Brown, the skinny one.
"Look at that toothpick coming," rose a cry from the watchers. He certainly was "coming" like a locomotive, his thin legs flying and his arms working like flails. A hundred yards from the finish Hillard caught Peckham, but the little whitehead was still legging it ten yards in front of him. And now Hillard settled down to do his best. Slowly he came up on Tommy Brown while the school yelled its applause, but those thin, flying shanks still continued to move with unbroken rhythm, and despite Hillard's greatest efforts he could not overhaul the Freshman who, with a great burst of speed, broke the tape six feet ahead of the champion. Immediately there was a babel of voices.
"Hurray for Skinny!"