Gerald retreated to the door, bade the Assistant Principal good afternoon, and scampered away. After the door had closed Mr. Collins put his hands over his head, yawned, and smiled.
“I wonder,” he murmured, “who really worked that Broadwood prank. That boy wouldn’t think of a thing like that in a thousand years!”
Gerald hurried over to the gymnasium and found most of the track squad in the locker-room. Tom Dyer was seated on a bench wrapped in his bath-gown, lazily flexing the muscles of one big arm and awaiting his turn at the shower.
“Hello, Gerald,” he said, as that youth took a seat beside him. “What have you been up to to-day?”
“Nothing much,” answered Gerald. “Just knocking about. Say, Tom, is there any book that tells you how to train for running?”
“Eh? Book? Why, lots, I guess, but I’ve never read any of them. Why?”
“What’s the best one, Tom?”
“Let me see.” Tom scowled a moment and finally named a work on track athletics written by a prominent college trainer. “I guess that’s the most practical of them,” he said. “But books don’t take the place of work, Gerald.”
“I know. I’m going to work, too. I asked Collins and he said I might run on the track if I wanted to—just on my own hook, you know. And I thought that maybe if I had a book to go by I could keep myself in training, and then—if—if they let me off probation in time, perhaps I could get back on the squad again.”
“Well, I like your pluck!” answered Tom, admiringly. “And I guess it’s worth trying. Have you said anything to Maury about it?”