..
there's Flammer has lost the broad jump ... and we won't win the class
banner after all."
Learoyd was a smallish, golden-faced, downy-headed boy ... almost an
albino.... I had seen him run ... he ran low to the ground, in flashes,
like some sort of shore-bird.
* * * * *
In the class-tent, alone. Dunn had driven my class out, where they had
been massaging and kneading my legs ... which trembled and tottered
under me, from the excessive use they had already undergone.
I sat down and put my head between my knees, and groaned. Then I
straightened out my right leg and rubbed it, because a cramp was
knotting it.
"Hello, Gregory!"
The tent-flap opened. The athletic director poked his head in.
"Come on, Gregory, we're waiting for you."
"Wait a minute, Smythe ... I want to pray," I replied simply. Reverently
he withdrew ... impressed ... awed....
I flung myself on my face.
"Look here, God, I'll really believe in you, if you give me this last
race ... it will be a miracle, God, if you do this for me, and I will
believe in your Bible, despite my common sense ... despite history ...
despite Huxley and Voltaire," then, going as far as I could--"yes, and
despite Shelley ... dear God, dear Christ, please do what I have asked."
My hand struck on a bottle of witch hazel as I rose. Impulsively, I
drank off half the contents.
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