“‘Cricket-ball. Clipstone 77 yards.’ What a poor throw! Felgate is sure to beat that, at any rate.”
“Not if he can help,” said Barnworth. “In fact, if I were you, I would either scratch him, or see someone else is in too, to make sure of it. Unless you do, we lose it.”
“Do you mean he’d throw short on purpose?”
“My dear fellow, you are just beginning to perceive what anybody who isn’t a born simpleton would have seen for himself a week ago.”
Ainger’s brow clouded. “I’ll enter myself, then,” said he.
“No you won’t; enter Stafford. Stafford won’t get the mile, which you will. A little success may keep him with us; otherwise the odds are he may go over to the enemy—alias your friend Felgate.”
Ainger wrote Stafford’s name down there and then.
In this way the two friends went through the list. It was a strong record to beat, and if they were doubtful of themselves they were still more doubtful of some of their juniors.
For instance, Arthur, if he meant to win the long jump under sixteen, would have to clear 15 feet 8 inches; and Dimsdale, to secure the 100 yards under fifteen, would have to do it in 13 seconds. Tilbury was safe for the cricket-ball in his class; and Arthur, if he took care, might beat Smith’s record for the Shell half-mile. Most of the other events were decidedly doubtful, and it was evident the week which remained would need to be used well, if the ambitious attempt of Railsford’s house was to succeed. By no means the least interested peruser of the list when presently it was posted up on the common room door Railsford himself.
For a week or two past he had been as nearly happy as he could be in the congenial work of training and encouraging the youthful athletes of his house. He had felt drawn to them and they to him by quite a new bond of sympathy. He spared himself in nothing for the common cause, and his enthusiasm was, as might be expected, contagious.