Tom had used the title from force of habit and probably didn’t know that he had used it, which Stuart realized after he had shot a quick glance at the other’s smiling face. Stuart explained that he was down for the half mile and the mile.
“Haven’t done much running lately, have you?” Tom asked.
“Not much. Won’t to-day, probably. Thought I’d just like to keep my hand in, you know.”
“Meaning your legs,” chuckled Tom. “Well, you’ll have plenty of company in your events, I guess; especially the mile. About every junior who has two good legs thinks he’s a miler. I know, for I did myself when I came. Ran fourteenth in a field of thirteen, or something like that, and then The Laird got me to try the sprints. Mighty glad he did, too, for it was only the fact that I could manage the hundred in ten flat that got me on the football team. That was last year. Remember?”
Stuart nodded. “Certainly do, Tom. That was some run of yours in the Forest Hill game. Eighty-five yards, wasn’t it?”
“Eighty, to be truthful. Or half a yard more, maybe. It was a funny piece of luck. I’d been sitting on the bench ever since the season started and hadn’t been in a game. Fair enough, too, for all I could do was punt a bit.”
“How about run?” laughed Stuart.
“Well, yes, I could sprint, but I mean I wasn’t much use as far as football stuff went. That day they laid Pitkin out cold in the first quarter, if you remember, and then Ernie got a kick in the head and for some reason or other Coach picked on me. That was in the third quarter, close to the end of it, and the ball was about seven yards from our goal.”
“Yes, and third down, too, with only two to go,” added Stuart grimly. “Forest Hill had us beaten, 9 to 0. Anyway, we all thought so.”