“Forty-five feet two inches,” said the judge.
The Robinson trainer, who had looked anxious a moment since, smiled demurely. Over on the starting line the half-milers were being placed. Along the length of the stands the spectators were leaving their seats here and there. Pete stepped into the seven-foot circle for his last try. Tommy, a few feet away, watched him eagerly. With the shot in his right hand, Pete looked across and dropped his left eyelid in a portentous wink.
Tommy’s heart sank. If Pete would only stop his fooling for a minute, he thought, and really put his heart into it! And while the thought came to him, Pete was hopping across the ring and poising himself for an instant at the front edge. Then his body swung around, his right arm shot out like a steel spring, and the shot went arching over the ground. Tommy’s heart leaped into his throat and then thumped wildly. From the stands whose occupants were near enough to be able to follow the shot-putting came a great roar of applause. Tommy, with his eyes fixed intently on the tape, felt a hand seize his arm and pull him around.
“Come along,” said Pete, “and find Nast.”
“Wait! Wait till we find out——”
“Find out nothing,” said Pete. “Monroe can’t touch that put!”
But even as Tommy hung back the judge looked up from the tape with a smile on his face.
“Forty-five feet eleven inches!” he said.