Could she have meant it, he wondered, when she told him she would cut
him from her list of friends if he failed to break the record. He smiled
at the soaped reflection of his long, thin face in the little mirror.
Ten seconds was a tiny lapse of time but it was the record. A hundred
yards in ten seconds. That was ten yards a second. That was.... Well,
approximately, ten feet at a stride--no, eight. A rather wide stride, to
be sure, but _his_ legs.... Now if he could stride nine feet what would
that bring it? Two and two----
Bunny found himself of a sudden involved in so deep a morass of
mathematics that he gave up in disgust--and cut himself.
He would make an effort--a mighty effort. Of this he was determined. It
was to be his last, he mused, so it must needs be mighty. In any event
if he should fail it would not mean so much; that is, so very much.
Other men had failed, trying to accomplish that which heaven was
determined they should not. And yet----
"If you don't break the record I'll never speak to you again as long as
I live!"
The words were insistent. It was as though Wilma were there beside him,
as he stood before the little dusty mirror, and sounding them over and
over in his ears.
"By George!" he exclaimed aloud, "I've _got_ to smash it; that's all,
I've _got_ to!"
As he stepped out upon the broad porch of the low roofed house, the
light of determination was in his eyes and the firmness of a set resolve
had squared his chin.