“I—I don’t know yet. Skeet—he’s our coach—gave me a trial the other day, but he wouldn’t tell me what my time was.”
Mr. Addicks nodded. “I see. What’s the school record?”
Perry didn’t know, but Fudge supplied the information. “It’s ten and a fifth. Lanny White did it last year against Springdale.”
“That’s good work! I’d like to see that chap run. I suppose you have your work-outs in the afternoons, don’t you? If I didn’t have to—if I wasn’t so busy I’d come out and look you over. My record was ten flat for the hundred when I was in college, and fifteen and two-fifths over the high hurdles. I never could do much at the two-twenty distance, sprint or hurdles. I did do the low hurdles once in twenty-six flat, but that was in practice.”
“What college did you go to?” asked Fudge, forgetting his suspicion for the moment.
“Morgan,” answered the man, and smiled at their perplexity. “It’s in Nebraska. Ever hear of it?”
They shook their heads, looking apologetic.
“I suppose not. It’s a long ride from here. Good little college, though. I spent a right comfortable three years there.”
“Does it take but three years to get through there?” asked Fudge. “I’d like to go there myself, I guess.”
“No, but I was in a hurry, so I finished up in three. Had to get out and hustle me a living, you see. Not but what I wasn’t doing that after a fashion all the time.” He paused and chuckled deeply. “Ran a livery stable.”