SHAMBLER’S VISITOR
Tom Parsons’s chums had the common sense--or shall we say grace--not to
mention his non-appearance at the May walk. As they came into the room
at the close of the day that had meant so much to them, and which had
been fraught with incidents that would be long remembered, Sid, Phil and
Frank acted just as though, all along, they had not expected Tom to go,
or as if he would be on hand to meet them on their return. For he was
back ahead of them. He had fairly rushed for a car after seeing Madge
with Shambler.
“Did you finish your book?” asked Frank, as he slumped down into an easy
chair.
“No,” replied Tom quietly. “I went for a walk.”
“It was a fine day,” remarked Sid, taking the companion chair to the one
Frank had selected, and with such violence did he fling himself into it
that the joints creaked and groaned in protest. “I’m tired,” added Sid,
in explanation.
“No reason for killing the chair though,” objected Phil. “That’s the old
original, too, not the one we got from Rosencranz. Treat it gently.”
Tom was stretched out on the sofa, his arms up over his head, staring at
the ceiling. He moved his feet to make room for Phil, who settled down
beside his chum.
For a space there was silence in the room, a deep silence, for no one
knew just what to say to relieve the somewhat embarrassing situation.
The three did not just know what to make of Tom, though they had heard,
just before coming home, that Madge Tyler was with Shambler, and that
explained much.
“Great Scott! The clock!” suddenly exclaimed Sid, as the silence, which
was beginning to make itself felt, became so oppressive that they were
all aware that the clock had stopped. “Have you been doing anything to
it, Tom?”
“Who? Me? No, it was going when I went out. Maybe it needs winding.”
“That’s it,” declared Sid with an air of relief as, by testing the thumb
screw that operated the main spring, he found the time piece had indeed
run down. Soon its cheerful, if somewhat monotonous ticking, filled the
room.
“Well, now for some boning,” remarked Phil, with half a sigh, as he
took off his stiff collar, and made himself comfortable. “I understand
the Spring exams are going to be pretty stiff,” he added.
“Well, they ought to be,” remarked Frank. “We’re getting up in the
world. We’re not in the kindergarten class any more. But it will soon be
Summer, and then for a long rest. I’m going out on a ranch, I think.”
“Me for the mountains,” declared Sid.
“And a lake and a motor-boat for me,” chimed in Phil. “How about you,
Tom?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t made any plans. It depends on how dad’s lawsuit
comes out. I may be a waiter in a hotel where some of you fellows are
sporting.”
“If you are, I’ll sit at your table and give you big enough tips so you
can come back to Randall in the Fall,” spoke Sid with a laugh, in which
the others joined. And then, with minds that probably dwelt more on the
happenings of the day than on their books, the three fell to studying.
But Tom remained stretched out on the sofa, with his arms up over his
head, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Everybody out for practice to-day!” ordered Holly Cross the following
afternoon, as a crowd of lads poured forth from Randall at the close of
the last lecture of the day. “Shot-putters, weight throwers, runners,
jumpers, hurdlers--everybody on the job!”
“What’s the rush?” asked Phil. “Anything new?”
“Well, yes, in a way. The committee from the four colleges met last
night, and we’ve practically decided to hold the meet. All the
objectionable points were done away with, and it only remains to decide
on the events and the date.”
“That’s the stuff!” cried the Big Californian.
“Wow! Something doing all right!” yelled Shambler. “I’m going to get
into my running togs.”
“You’d think the whole college depended on him,” remarked Sid, with a
half sneer, as the new student hastened toward the gymnasium.
“Well, we’re counting on him to win the mile run for us,” said Holly.
“He’s the best we’ve struck yet, even if he is loaded to the muzzle with
conceit. Come on, now, you fellows, get busy.”
“Did those new hurdles come?” asked Frank Simpson, who was much
interested in the proposed one hundred and twenty yard hurdle race.
“Yes, I’ll have them out on the path pretty soon,” replied Holly.
“They’re fine, and it only takes a few seconds to change from one height
to another. See how you like ’em.”
Soon the athletic field at Randall presented a busy scene. Lads in all
sorts of undress uniform, from running trunks to jerseys and sweaters,
were at practice.
[Illustration: SOON THE ATHLETIC FIELD AT RANDALL PRESENTED A BUSY
SCENE.]
Here, in the seven-foot circle, Phil was balancing himself for the
hammer throw, while off to one side Tom was adjusting the toe board in
order to put the sixteen pound shot. Frank Simpson was assisting one of
the janitors in setting up the new hurdles, and Sid was testing his
vaulting pole.
Dutch Housenlager, whose big frame and mighty muscles gave him an
advantage few others enjoyed, was juggling with the fifty-six pound
weight.
“I’m going to do better than twenty-five feet to-day,” he declared, and
forthwith he swung up the big iron ball with its triangular handle and
heaved it.
“Twenty-five feet eight inches!” announced a measurer.
“Hurray!” yelled Sid.
“Oh, I’ll beat that yet,” predicted Dutch with a laugh.
Shambler came running from the gymnasium attired in his new suit. He
presented an attractive figure; Tom could not help admitting that, much
as he disliked the newcomer. And certainly Shambler could run. He had a
certain confident air, and a manner about him that counted for much.
The practice went on, and Holly Cross and Kindlings, who had been
voted into permanent trainers and managers interchangeably, watched with
keen eyes the performances of all the lads.
“There’s some good stuff here,” remarked Holly.
“Yes,” agreed Kindlings, “if they’ll only practice and keep at it. It’s
quite a while to the games though, and any one of them may go stale.
This isn’t like baseball or football. If we don’t win one game on
the diamond or gridiron, we have another chance. But we won’t in the
all-around contests. It’s do or die the first time.”
“Why, you aren’t worried, are you?”
“No, but Boxer Hall would give her head to beat us, and we can’t take
any chances. Say, just hold the watch on Shambler, will you? I think
he’s hitting it up to-day.”
Holly walked over to the cinder track, where Shambler was about to
finish his mile run. As he breasted the tape Holly pressed his stop
watch.
“Time!” panted Shambler.
“Six minutes, fifty-six seconds,” reported Holly.
“Well, I’m going to get it down to six and a half before I’m done,” went
on the new student. “I can do it.”
“Better take it easy,” advised the trainer. As he spoke he saw a change
come over Shambler’s face, and there was a light in his eyes that told
of someone approaching to speak to him. Holly wheeled about to confront
a rather shabbily dressed man--a stranger, walking toward Shambler.
“Hello, Shambler,” greeted the newcomer. “At your old game, I see. I
thought I’d find you.”
The change that came over Shambler was surprising. Even as he turned
away, to look after some of the other contestants, Holly was aware of
it. It seemed, he said afterward, as though Shambler was afraid, or
ashamed of being spoken to by the shabby visitor.
“Aren’t you glad to see me?” went on the man. “I came a long way to see
you, and----”
“Of course,” broke in the runner. “Come on over here where we can talk.
I didn’t expect you.”
“You never can tell when I’m going to show up,” was the answer, and
Holly, hurrying away, thought that the words contained a half threat.