For the Honor of Randall Part 45

"Well, we'll see if we can get a line on their form."

Accordingly certain "spies" were sent out to see if they could get any information. It was regarded as legitimate then, for no underhand methods were used. It was "all in the game," and there was a sort of friendly rivalry among the colleges.

A day later some of the lads whom Kindlings had sent out made a report.

On the receipt of it the young coach did some figuring on the back of an envelope. Holly came upon him engaged in this occupation.

"What's up?" he demanded.

"Well, I'm trying to 'dope out,' where we stand," was the reply.

"Got any line?"

"Yes, if I can depend on it. The way I figure out is this. We've fairly got 'em all on some things. But not the mile run and the broad jump. Of course something might go wrong with the dash, or the hammer and weight throws, but I don't think so."

"What's the matter with the run and jump?"

"Well, if these figures from Exter are true, they've got Tom by about three seconds, and Sid by two inches. But I think Exter has been too optimistic in giving the 'dope.'"

"Maybe they've gone under their records to get better odds in betting."

"No, I don't think so. The only one I'm really afraid of is Exter. I think we can clean up Boxer Hall and Fairview. They can't come near us on anything except the weight throw and pole vault, and I know Phil will make good on the vault, and if Dutch doesn't get the fifty-six over the twenty-five foot mark I'll punch his head."

"Then the way you figure it out, we've got our work cut out for us?"

"We always had, but I think now that we've got just a chance to win. A chance, and nothing more, for the champions.h.i.+p. If Shambler and Frank had stayed in it would have been different, but as it is, and not to disparage Tom or Sid, we've got a fair chance and nothing more."

"To quote the raven," said Holly with a smile. "'Nevermore,' Mr. Poe.

But I think we'll do it, Kindlings."

"I'm sure I hope so," was the grave answer. "I hope so."

CHAPTER x.x.xI

AT THE GAMES

It was a day to be proud of--a day when nature was at her best. The sun shone, the sky was cloudless, the gra.s.s was green, and there was just enough wind to make it cool, without endangering any such delicate operation as putting a fifty-six pound weight, or interfere with an athlete hurling himself over the crossbar in the pole vault.

"Say, things couldn't be better!" cried Tom, as he jumped out of bed, and stood at the open window, breathing in the balmy air. "It's a good thing Randall's luck postponed the games a week."

"Feeling fit?" asked Frank.

"As a fiddle. Say, old man, I wish you were with us," and Tom put his arm around the Big Californian.

"Oh, well, you'll win without me, and maybe I'll be with you--next time," replied Frank, with the semblance of a laugh. None but himself knew the bitterness of his heart, and how much of a strain it had been for him to step aside, "for the honor of Randall," when he was sure, in his own mind, that he was in the right, and that not a blot of professionalism stained his record.

"Come on, Sid," urged Tom, as he pulled the blankets off his still slumbering chum. "As the old school readers used to say: 'The sun is up, and we are up, too.' Tumble out, and get your lungs full of good air.

Then we'll have a bit of breakfast and do some practice."

"Um!" grunted Sid, and he rolled out.

All was astir at Randall, and so, too, in the other colleges. For, though the games did not take place until afternoon, there was much yet to do, many final arrangements to make, and the candidates, nervous as young colts, wanted a last try-out.

Running and jumping shoes had to be looked after, tights and s.h.i.+rts in which were rents, or from which b.u.t.tons were missing, were being repaired by the rough and ready surgery of the college lads.

"This is the time when I wish we were at Fairview," remarked Tom, as he gingerly handled a needle, repairing a tear in his s.h.i.+rt.

"Why?" demanded Sid.

"So I could ask some of the girls to fix these rips. I never can get used to a thimble."

"Same here," agreed Phil. "I shove it through with a nail file."

"Threading a needle gets my goat," confessed Sid. "Some authorities say to hold the thread still, and shove the needle at it. Other text books claim that the only proper way is to stick the needle upright in your knee and, after shutting your eyes, keep poking the thread at it until you make a hit. Then knot it and proceed as directed."

"I never can get the right kind of a point on the thread," admitted Frank. "It's always too long, and then it curls up, and shoots around the needle like a drop curve, or else it's too short, and blunt, and breaks the eye out of the needle."

"There's some kind of a thimble, that you stick your needle in, and it has a funnel so you can sort of drop your thread through it, and get it in the hole sooner or later," remarked Tom. "Guess I'll get one."

"I had one of 'em," said Sid. "The trouble is that after you get the needle in the thimble you can't get it out again, and you have to break it off. Then you have to hunt up a new needle."

"It's a wonder some fellow doesn't invent a kind of court plaster that you could stick over a tear, and mend it that way, as we do a cut,"

suggested Phil. "I think I'll work on that, instead of my perpetual motion machine after the games."

Thus the jolly talk went on, until the lads, being excused from chapel for that day, had gotten their athletic suits into some sort of shape, and had gone out on the field for a final practice.

"Well, I trust the eleven will give a good account of itself to-day,"

mildly remarked Dr. Churchill, as he met Holly and Kindlings with a squad of candidates. The doctor knew rather less about athletics than some girls do of baseball.

"It isn't football, to-day, Doctor," said Holly gently.

"Oh, of course. I ought to know that. Football comes in the Fall. The nine plays for the champions.h.i.+p to-day, does it not? Ah, yes, I hope you win both halves."

"It's the track team that's going to compete--for the all-around champions.h.i.+p," whispered Dr. Marshall, with a wink at the young trainers. "The track team, Dr. Churchill."

"Ah, yes. I should have remembered. Well, I'm sure they will win," and, with this cheering remark, the head of Randall pa.s.sed on, thinking of a new book on the history of Sanskrit that he contemplated writing.

Out from their rooms, or the gymnasium, poured the athletes, eager as young colts, and as confident as all young lads are. Tom Parsons was fully himself again, Dr. Marshall's treatment having put him on his feet. All efforts to learn more about the "doped" bottle of medicine had been dropped, and very few in the college even knew about it.

Sid, too, was trained to the minute, and the others, on whom Randall based her hopes, gave every promise of making good. Yet there was always the chance of a "fluke," and Holly and Kindlings were desperately nervous as they checked record after record, cast up table after table of points, trying to figure out a more sure system for Randall to win.

The last of the practice was over. The boys had done all that was humanly possible to warrant their success. Now it all depended on the final outcome.

The athletes were to go to Tonoka Lake Park in autos, which had been supplied by some of the wealthier students of Randall. The rank and file would go in trolley cars, or any other way that suited them.

"Well, we can't do any more," remarked Holly to Kindlings, as they stood together, ready to start for the field. "We've done our best, and the rest lies with our lads."