"Happy name! Well, two-thirds of a sprint is in the start. How does Wally get in motion, Lawrence?"
"Like a sacred ox." Glass could not conceal his contempt.
"I'll give him some pointers; it will all help." But Speed was nervous and awkward—so awkward, in fact, that the coach finally gave it up as a bad job, saying:
"It's no use, Wally, you've got fool feet."
"I have, eh? Well, I didn't break them getting out of jail."
"The less said about that jail the better. I'm in trouble myself."
Speed might have explained that his chum's dilemma was by no means so serious as he imagined, had not watchman Willie thrust his head through the open window at that moment with the remark:
"Time to get busy!"
"We'll be right with you!" Glass seized his protege by the arm and bore him away, muttering: "Stick it out, brother, we're nearin' the end!"
Again Speed donned his running-suit and took to the road for his farewell practise. Again Willie followed at a distance on horseback, watching the hills warily. But all hope had fled from the Yale man now, and he returned to his training-quarters disheartened, resigned.