“Good for him,” laughed Alf. “Say, those Broadwood vaulters look pretty good, don’t they? There goes Cowles. Oh, hard luck, Cowles! They’re starting the high jump. I guess I’d better go over and earn my pay. How are you feeling, Gerald? Going to win that mile?”
“Easy,” laughed Gerald. “I’m feeling fine.”
“That’s more than Bert Maury is, I guess. He looks like a drink of water. Well, so long, Gerald.”
At the other end of the field the starter’s pistol barked, and Gerald turned to see four white-clad youths rising and falling as they came down the track in the first trial heat of the high hurdles. Stevenson, Yardley’s mainstay in that event, had no trouble in getting placed, a ripple of applause floated across from the grand stand, and the band struck up a nimble two-step. Gerald skirted the jumpers and went over to where four Yardley and five Broadwood fellows were putting the shot. Tom hadn’t removed his blue sweater yet, and as Gerald approached, he hopped across the ring and sent the shot arching away for a good thirty-six feet.
“Say, Dyer, if you’re going to do that with your sweater on,” laughed a Broadwood opponent, “what are you going to do when you take it off?”
Tom grinned and turned to Gerald. “What’s this I hear about Bert Maury not running?” he asked sotto voce.
“I hadn’t heard anything about it,” replied Gerald. “Why isn’t he going to?”
Tom shrugged his broad shoulders. “Search me. That’s what Stevenson said. I don’t know where he heard it. If Maury doesn’t run, this is going to be a mighty close thing to-day.”
“He seemed to be all right at dinner,” said Gerald. “They’ll get the mile for sure if he doesn’t start.”