“There’s Gerald,” said Alf, pointing to a youngster who, in a modest attire of sleeveless shirt, short running trunks and spiked shoes, was stepping eagerly about at a little distance. “Looks as though he could run, doesn’t he? Good muscles in those legs of his. That’s what boxing does for you.”
“There he goes,” groaned Tom. “Honest, Dan, he thinks boxing will do anything from developing the feet to raising hair on a bald head!”
“That’s all right,” said Alf stoutly. “It’ll develop the muscles of the legs, my friend, just about as much as any other muscles. O-oh, Gerald!”
Gerald Pennimore looked around, smiled, and waved his hand. He was a good-looking youngster of fifteen, with an eager, expressive face, a lithe body that needed development, and a coloring that was almost girlish. His eyes were very blue and his skin was fair in spite of the fact that he had tried hard all the summer to get it tanned like Dan’s. What bothered him more than all else, however, was the fact that his cheeks were pink and that the least emotion made him redden up like a girl. His hair, which he kept cut as short as possible, was the color of corn tassels, but the summer had streaked it with darker tones and Gerald was hopeful that in time it would all turn to an ordinary shade of brown. Another trial that he had to endure was being thought even younger than he was. It was bad enough to be only fifteen when the fellows you most liked were from one to three years older, but to have folks guess your age as fourteen was very discouraging.
“All ready!” warned Andy Ryan.
Gerald poised himself in the second line of starters and waited eagerly, impatiently for the word. Then it came and he bounded off as though the race was a quarter-mile run instead of a three-mile jaunt over a hard road and some rough hills and meadows.
“Easy, Gerald!” cautioned Dan as the runners swept by. “Get your wind. Hello, Thompson! Hello, Joe! Stick to ’em!”
“There’s that chap Hiltz,” said Alf. “Didn’t know he had enough energy to run. By the way, we mustn’t forget about the Cambridge Society election next month. You’ve got to beat Hiltz out, you know, if we are to get Gerald in as we promised. Hiltz and Thompson were the Third Class members of the Admission Committee last year and I suppose they’ll be up for election from the Second Class this year. We must find out about that, and if Hiltz is going to try to get in again you must do a little canvassing on your own hook. We’ll organize a campaign. You can beat him, though, without trying, I guess.”
“We made a mistake in thinking it was Thompson who blackballed Gerald in May, didn’t we?”