“Had to! Besides, I was fresh as a daisy. Just as soon as I’d worked out of the crowd I knew I was all right. There wasn’t one of that bunch who wasn’t too tired to give me a race.”
“That got us the game,” reflected Stuart. “Gee, but I’ll never forget how crazy we were when we saw you go over that line! After that we just got it into our heads that Forest Hill wasn’t such a sight better than we were, and we tore her up.”
“It looked like we’d started too late, though, until you got off that forward pass to ‘Mudgard.’ Even then I wouldn’t have bet much on our winning.”
“No, for Burns had a mean angle to kick from and there was some wind. Not much, but plenty to queer his aim. At that, if you remember, the old pigskin hit the bar going over!”
“Sure do,” chuckled Hanson. “I remember lots of things about that game.”
“I’ll bet you do. I guess you remember the way the fellows got up and cheered you when you came in to supper that night, for one thing!” Stuart laughed softly. “You certainly were the popular guy that time, Tom!”
“Oh, shucks! Anyway, that got me started. That’s why I say I’m glad I didn’t make a miler. If I’d finished that race much better than twelfth or thirteenth—anyway, last but one—I’d have gone right on running the distances.”
Stuart nodded. “And we’d have lost a crackajack half, Tom. Glad you were so rotten. Bet you, though, I’ll do even worse to-day than you did.”
“Oh, I guess you’ll finish pretty well up,” said Tom. “Of course that poor fish, Lantwood, will win. Say, I can’t stand that chap.”
“Well, he isn’t horribly attractive to me,” responded the other, “but I’ve nothing against him. He certainly can run the mile; and the half, too, for that matter. What have you got against the lad, Tom?”