My class, in a body, had
urged me to enter for all the "events" I could ... when the delegation
came, I welcomed them, with gratified self-importance, to my solitary
room. I invited them in, and they sat about ... on my single chair ...
my bed ... the floor....
"You see, Gregory, if you win two of these races, we'll get the banner
that goes to the class that makes the greatest number of points ... you
must do it for us ... we have never yet won the banner, and this is our
last chance."
They left, solemnly shaking my hand, as over a matter of vast
importance....
Hurrying into my track suit, I went out to the Oval. It was three days
before the meet.
Dunn was there, with several others, measuring out distances and
chalking lanes.
With all the delicate joy of an aesthete I took my slim, spiked running
shoes. I patted them with affection as I pushed my feet into them. I
removed the corks from the shining spikes....
I struck out with long, low-running, greyhound strides ... around and
around ... the wind streamed by me....
I knew I was being watched admiringly. I could see it out of the tail of
my eyes. So I threw forward in a final sprint, that brought me up, my
eyes stinging with the salt of sweat, my legs aching ... my chest
heaving....
"Good boy," complimented Dunn, coming up to me, and patting me on the
back ... Gregory, I'm _for_ you.
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