“But you’re on the Track Team, aren’t you?” Gerald asked.
“Yes. There’s some sense to that.”
“Tom’s happy if you give him a sixteen-pound shot or a lump of lead on the end of a wire,” said Alf. “He won eight points for us last Spring. But you ought to see the crowd scatter when he gets swinging the hammer around.”
“Oh, you dry up,” said Tom.
“Fact, though,” laughed Alf. “Once last year when he was practising, the blamed thing got away from him and tore off about ten feet of the grandstand. Andy Ryan said it was a lucky thing the framework was of iron, or else he’d have smashed the whole stand up.”
“You fellows are having lots of fun with me,” growled Tom, good-naturedly, as he arose and took up his cap, “and I hate to spoil your enjoyment, but I promised to look up Rand this evening.”
“That’s all right,” Dan assured him, “we can have just as much fun with you when you’re not here.”
“Well, what you don’t know can’t hurt you. By the way, Gerald, want to come around to Oxford with me Saturday night? We’ve got a fellow coming over from Greenburg after the debate to do some sleight-of-hand for us.”
“I’d like to,” replied Gerald, “but—” He glanced anxiously at Dan and Alf.
“Sure,” said Alf. “Go ahead. We’re glad to have you. The more you see of Oxford, the better you’ll like Cambridge. You see, Gerald, the only way they can get the fellows to attend Oxford is by supplying them with vaudeville entertainments. In another year or so they’ll have to have brass bands and free feeds if they want fellows to go there!”