“Tu-tu-tu-tu—” he began. But for the life of him he couldn’t get any farther. The audience tried hard not to laugh, and the crack smiled in spite of himself. He might never have received an answer to his question if Nelson hadn’t come to the rescue.
“His name’s Ferris, Tom Ferris,” said Nelson. “He’s a pretty good swimmer for a fatty, isn’t he?”
That insult summoned Tom’s lost breath.
“Hope you ch-ch-ch-choke!” he stammered.
“Well, you’re all right, my boy,” said the crack admiringly. “We’ll have a talk after dinner, if you like.”
Nodding, he moved off to the beach and disappeared into his bath house. Nelson took Tom by the arm and led him in the same direction. Bob and Dan, the latter having just finished fifth in the race, joined them.
“You were a cheeky beggar, Tommy,” said Bob, “to try and beat that fellow!”
“Why?” gasped Tom, stretching his arms in the hope that they would stop paining.
“Why, because he’s Woodbury, of”—here Bob mentioned a well-known New York athletic club—“and he holds the quarter-mile and half-mile amateur records, my boy.”
“Well, I could beat him next time,” said Tom stoutly.