"Most young girls do," Fresno smiled, sourly. "My taste runs more to music." After a moment's meditation, he observed: "Speed doesn't look like a sprinter to me. I—I'll wager he can't do a hundred yards in fifteen-two."
"'Fifteen-two' is cribbage," said Miss Blake.
"Fifteen and two-fifths seconds is what I mean."
"Is that fast?"
Fresno smiled, indulgently this time. "Jean's friend Covington can go the distance in nine and four-fifths seconds. He's a real sprinter. I think this fellow is a joke."
"Indeed he is not! If Mr. Covington can run as fast as that, Mr. Speed can run faster. He told me so."
"Oh!" Fresno looked at her curiously. "The world's record is nine and three-fifths; that's the limit of human endurance."
"I hope he doesn't injure himself," breathed the girl, and the tenor wandered away, disgusted beyond measure. When he was out of hearing, he remarked, aloud:
"I'll bet he runs so slow we'll have to wind a stop-watch on him.
Anyhow, I think I'll find out something more about this race."
Once in his room, Mr. J. Wallingford Speed made a search for writing materials, while Larry Glass overhauled a trunk filled with athletic clothing of various descriptions. There were running-suits, rowing-suits, baseball and football suits, sweaters, jerseys, and bath robes—all of which were new and unstained. At the bottom Glass discovered a box full of bronze and near-gold emblems.