“Y-yes, but it isn’t the same, you know. Well, I must get busy.”
He nodded to Gerald and hurried off. Gerald was a little disappointed at the track captain’s lack of interest as he followed him over to the starting line. Andy was hard at work with a bunch of half-milers when Gerald reached him, and he had to wait some time before the trainer was ready to give him attention.
“Collins said I could do it, Andy,” announced Gerald.
“Did he? Do what?” Andy demanded.
“Why, run! Don’t you remember you said yesterday——”
“Sure! All right, Pennimore, but don’t get in the way of the others. And I guess you’d better not talk much to me. They might think I was giving you advice, you see. Remember, my lad, you’re doing this on your lonesome.” He turned away to call, “Sprinters up the track to try starts! And hurry up, every mother’s son of yez!”
Gerald had meant to ask the trainer whether he should jog to-day or try some sprints, but Andy had gone and Gerald consoled himself with the reflection that perhaps it was just as well, since asking advice from Andy was hardly allowable under the terms of his agreement with Mr. Collins. No, if he was going to train by himself he must play fair. So he stepped onto the track, threw aside his robe, and started around at a jog. On his fifth lap the milers passed him, and Goodyear ranged alongside long enough to ask him if he were off probation. When Gerald explained that he was just running for fun—for that seemed the simpler way in which to explain his presence—Goodyear looked vastly surprised. Gerald did his two miles that afternoon, and finished pretty well done up. His idleness told on him. When he reached the gymnasium he found that his reappearance on the track had awakened quite a lot of interest, and he was forced to explain many times that the rumor to the effect that faculty had relented was quite erroneous. Some of his questioners seemed to think that he was doing a very plucky thing in keeping up his training, but most of them considered it a pretty good joke; and Bufford, the hundred-yards man, coined the phrase “The Pennimore Track Team.” But Gerald didn’t mind. At least the fellows he liked best, notably Dan and Arthur and Alf and Tom, were properly sympathetic and interested. And, all that aside, probation had lost much of its sting, and it was delicious to feel physically tired and ravenously hungry again. He and Arthur walked back to the latter’s room after showers, and talked it all over there, Harry Merrow for once being out of the way.
“It’s going to be rather dreary work, though, I’m afraid,” Arthur said. “You’re bound to lose heart after a bit, Gerald. Doing anything all by yourself like that isn’t so much fun. But you try and keep it up.”
“I’m going to,” answered Gerald, stoutly. “And I don’t believe it’s going to be so hard. I love to run, Arthur, and I’d just like to show Maury that I’m not a back-number, after all. Next Monday, I’m going to give myself a time-trial.”