“Not to-day, son. Too much is enough. We’ll try that some other time. Don’t work too hard this afternoon, by the way. It’s easy to get stale at this stage of the game. And the meet is less than two weeks off.”
“Gee,” sighed Fudge, “I w-w-wish you’d sh-sh-show me something about th-th-th-throwing the hammer!”
“I would if I knew anything about it, Fudge. But I thought you were getting on swimmingly.”
“Pretty fair, sir. Only Falkland keeps on beating me by four or five feet every time. I wish I were taller, that’s what I wish! He’s almost six inches taller than I am and his arms are longer.”
“You might wear stilts,” Perry suggested.
“Or put French heels on your shoes,” laughed Mr. Addicks.
Fudge sighed dolefully and then brightened. “Anyway,” he said, “I can beat Thad! And he’s older than I, and bigger, too.”
“Whatever happens,” said Mr. Addicks as they crossed the field, “I’ve got to see that meet, fellows!”
“Of course,” agreed Fudge. “Mr. Brent will let you off, won’t he?”
“It isn’t Mr. Brent who has the say so,” replied the other with a smile. “It’s my pocketbook, Fudge.”