“Fine and dandy, Kansas,” agreed Chesty. “Why, if we had that, or even a good slice off it, we could have a quarter-mile running track!”
“And then, maybe,” muttered Drake, who was a member of the Track Team, “we wouldn’t get simply snowed under every spring at the Tri-Meet.”
“Considering we haven’t a track of our own,” said Williams, “I think it’s sort of wonderful we do as well as we do.”
“Of course it is,” Drake admitted. “But it gets monotonous when you’re licked hard every year. We go over to Chase or Dixon and get ten or twelve points in field events and then sort of stand around and watch the other fellows take all the track stunts. It makes me tired!”
“Maybe,” mused Chesty, “Old Fink will up and shuffle off this mortal coil some day and then we can have the field.”
“Huh! Don’t you believe it,” exclaimed Williams pessimistically. “He will leave a will forbidding his—whatdoyoucallems—his heirs to let us have it. He’s the meanest old rascal in the State of Massachusetts!”
“And he hates us fellows like the mischief,” added Drake.
“Hates us for the mischief, I guess,” laughed Sam. “I don’t think he needs to be so nasty about it, but I will own that he has some cause for not loving us.”
“We never did anything to him until he acted so pesky mean,” growled Williams. “Nothing, that is, but swipe a few of his old apples. And he’s got about a hundred trees over there and wouldn’t miss what we take, anyway.”