“I wish you’d make it Noah,” sighed Arthur. “I’m having beastly luck with his old physics lately.”
“Why not begin at home?” asked Joe. “There’s Kilts right down the hall there.”
“Ssh!” Alf leaned across the remains of the feast. “Just between ourselves, I have a weakness for Kilts, and I’m hoping we’ll be able to get him to join us. I’ve always thought that Kilts would make a dandy assassin. He reminds me so often of one of those old Scotch Boarders—I mean Borderers. When the time is ripe I shall put it up to him, and I think—mind you, I only say I think—that he will jump at the chance!”
After that evening the S. P. M. met occasionally and informally, and there was one hilarious evening when another double initiation took place, Harry Durfee, the baseball captain, and Tom Roeder, being admitted to the fold. By that time the S. P. M. had become rather famous throughout school, and there were many applications for membership. But Alf counseled keeping the society select. Many guesses were made as to what S. P. M. stood for, the guesses varying from Socially Prominent Members to Stewed Prune Munchers. Alf managed to derive a good deal of entertainment from his society; but as the faculty continued to breathe and have their being, it must be confessed that the S. P. M. failed of its avowed mission. March settled down to fair and warm weather before it was half gone; and with the beginning of outdoor work for baseball and track candidates, the S. P. M. lost its interest.
The track and field squad had grown to over forty boys, and every afternoon they were hard at it under Andy Ryan’s direction. Every one was glad when gymnasium work was over, and they could get out on the field and feel the sod or cinders under their spiked shoes. Dan and Alf were busy on the diamond, Dan at second base and Alf in left field. Tom was swinging the hammer around his head or tossing the shot, getting himself into form again, and at the same time helping Andy with the coaching of three other candidates for the weight events. Thompson was working hard at the high bar, and Gerald—well, Gerald was trying his best to run his young legs off, and would have succeeded, I fancy, had not Andy Ryan kept a close watch on him. For Gerald was eager and willing to a degree; and if he had been left to his own devices, would undoubtedly have blasted his chances in the very first fortnight by overexertion.
For Gerald’s idea of training for the mile run was to go out every day and run that distance at top speed; and he was both surprised and disappointed when Andy restricted him to jogging around the track one day, racing a quarter of a mile the next, and, as like as not, laying him off entirely the third.
“But I’m perfectly able to run to-day, Andy,” he pleaded on one such occasion. Andy shook his head.
“Easy does it, my boy, easy does it,” he replied. “You’ve got two months ahead of you yet. We’ll start slow and work up. Mile runners aren’t made in a day, nor a week, nor yet a year, for that matter.”
And when Gerald complained to Alf that he feared Andy wasn’t going to take enough interest in him, Alf gave him a little lecture. “Get that idea out of your head, Gerald,” he said, severely. “Andy knows what he’s up to. When he tells you to jog, you jog. When he tells you to sprint, you sprint; and when he says rest, why, rest as hard as you know how. That’s the way to get on fastest. Distance running, as I’ve heard, is largely a matter of endurance, and I guess endurance is something you’ve got to learn slowly.”
“But I’ve run three miles time and again, Alf, and finished strong.”