"A build to hurt and not get hurt," he said at last; "but, Mr. Bailly, it's hard to supply experience. Boys come here who have played all their lives, and they know less than nothing. Bone seems to grow naturally in the football cranium."
He shifted back to George.
"How fast are you?"
"I've never timed myself, but I'm hard to catch."
"Get out there," the trainer directed.
"In those clothes?" Bailly asked.
"Why not? The ground's dry. A man wouldn't run any faster with moleskins and cleats. Now you run as far as the end of that stand. Halt there for a minute, then turn and come back."
He drew out a stop watch.
"All set? Then—git!"
George streaked down the field.