Billy turned and watched. When the shot had landed, he asked:
“Has he ever tried that before?”
“No, indeed; Pete’s stunt is football.” Kernahan smiled.
“Sure. I remember him now. Well, you try a few sprints of thirty yards or so, and I guess that’ll do for to-day. That stride’s coming along all right; don’t be in too big a hurry. To-morrow do a slow mile and a few starts. Then you’d better knock off until the meeting.”
Allan nodded, turned and jogged away up the track. Billy strolled toward Pete. When he drew near his ears were greeted with a plaintive wail:
Sam Bass was born in Indiana, it was his native home,
And at the age of seventeen young Sam began to roam;
He hit the trail——
Away sped the shot, and fell with a thud fully thirty feet distant. Pete grunted. Billy’s face lighted. Pete wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of one big hand and strolled after the shot. When he turned back he saw the trainer. He looked somewhat abashed and showed a disposition to drop the weight where he stood. But he thought better of it.
“Taking a little exercise,” he explained, carelessly.
Billy nodded.