It was the day of the try-outs at Cambridge when the best that Harvard and Yale could muster were gathered to contest for a place on the team which should meet Oxford and Cambridge.

"One week more and we will be on the briny," observed Gleason confidently to Frank. The speaker, Jimmy and David had all journeyed to the big Stadium to see their classmate compete for a place.

"Gleason, if you talk like that much more, you'll hoodoo me. Don't forget that I'm a novice at this game. I've got about one chance in ten."

"You'll come through all right," said David Powers. "I've noticed that you do pretty well under pressure."

"As, for instance, football on the Yale Freshman team!—Go to, David, go to! I know what you fellows are trying to do. You're trying to keep up my sinking spirits. Much obliged."

Frank was dressing for the trials along with the point-winners of the 'Varsity track team, but he felt strange and shy with the older and more seasoned athletes. He was the only Freshman who had been taken with the Yale squad, and his three friends, David, Jimmy and the Codfish, had made it a point to be with him.

"I don't see any particular reason for anyone going over to represent us in the broad jump anyway," said Frank.

"How's that?" inquired someone.

"Didn't you see the morning papers? No? Well, Vare, that Oxford man, jumped 23 feet 5 in practice, and they think over there there's nothing but England to this coming meet. All the prophets have it settled."

"I've heard of prophets slipping before now," said the Codfish gaily.

"And Vare is a consistent jumper, better than 23 feet most of the time, from all I can learn," went on Frank. "Cambridge has a pretty good jumper, too, better than we have, but away behind Vare. So if the unexpected happens and I should win out, which doesn't look bright, I'd be nothing but an also-ran when it comes to the scratch over there."

Out on the track where the contestants were now hurrying, a crowd of officials and friends were gathered along the straightaway and the various jumping pits. Halloby had already won his place in the high hurdles and was receiving the congratulations of his friends as he walked smilingly back to the track house.

"Good boy, Halloby," came the greeting from all sides. A Yale man had been second. Both would be taken.

Hotchkiss was at the jumping pit when Frank reached there, and was engaged in marking with the greatest care the length of his strides just before the "take" of the jump so that he would get the best results. Up and down the runway he went, measuring and pacing. He gave Armstrong a curt nod as he walked to the jumpers' bench to the right of the runway.

Just as the quarter-mile ended, giving Harvard two men and Yale none in this event, the broad jumping contest was started with Hotchkiss leading off. On his first try, Hotchkiss overran the jumping block. McGregor, a Harvard man, cleared 21 feet 8 inches, another Harvard man 21 feet 6, and then it came Frank's turn.

"Now, Armstrong," said the trainer as he walked down the runway toward the point where Frank had left his jersey as a starting mark. "Keep your head, get a breeze up in those last six strides and hit the block hard. Go ahead."

Frank loped down the runway for perhaps fifty feet, speeding up toward the middle of the run. Then within six or eight strides of the block he burst into full speed, hit the block squarely, and shot into the air. It looked like a magnificent jump but when he struck in the soft sawdust and loam of the pit he could not hold the full distance, and fell backwards, breaking the ground a good three feet to the rear of where his heels first touched. Naturally, the jump was measured from the block to the point where his hand broke the ground.

"Twenty feet four inches," sang out the judge of the event.

"This Yale Freshman isn't such a wonder, after all," whispered a Harvard competitor to another sitting next him on the bench. "If he could have held his distance, it would have been a peach, though."

"Your old fault, Armstrong," said Black coming over to him. "That jump was actually better than 23 feet. Now, try to stay up on your next."

As the trainer spoke, Hotchkiss came rushing down the runway. He got a perfect take-off, rose in the air, turned halfway round in his flight, but held the distance he had made on the jump, which was a moment later announced to be 22 feet 10 inches.

McGregor followed with a pretty jump of 22 feet 6, while his teammate did not better his first jump, which was not good enough even to be measured.

Again it was Frank's turn, and so well did he heed the coaching of Black that the judge gave him credit for 22 feet 8 inches, the second best jump of the afternoon. Hotchkiss still held the lead, however, and swaggered a little as he walked around. The jumpers followed each other in rotation. Frank's next try was a failure, but on the following one, gathering all his energies for a supreme effort, he sailed into the air like a bird.

"Twenty-two feet ten and three-fourths inches," called the judge, showing in his voice an awakening interest in the event.

Hotchkiss, stung at the thought that the Freshman had beaten his best mark, showed very plainly in his preparations for his trials that he meant to wipe him out. He moved his marks a trifle, stepped the distance carefully, and then, seemingly satisfied, walked slowly to the end of the runway.

"He's peeved," remarked Turner.

"What difference does it make to him anyway, he's sure to be taken, isn't he?" inquired David.

"Hotchkiss is one of those chaps who hate to be anything but first."

"He has a head like a rhinocer-hoss," said the Codfish. As he spoke, Hotchkiss turned at the far end of the runway. Every eye was on him now, which was not at all displeasing to him. Down the runway he came like a race horse, his gaze fixed steadily on the take-off block where the supreme effort was to be made. But so great was his speed in his endeavor to eclipse all previous efforts that he struck the block badly, sprang in the air, lost his direction and landed partly in and partly out of the pit in an awkward straddle. Unable to keep his balance he fell over sideways on the hard ground and lay there groaning.

In an instant a half score of bystanders had run to the aid of Hotchkiss. He was picked up and set upon his feet, half stunned, but when he attempted to take a step, he sank down groaning.

The trainer sprang to the side of the injured jumper. "Where is it?" he demanded.

"My ankle," moaned Hotchkiss. "I twisted it in some way. Here, let me try it again." But try as he might, he could not bear a particle of weight on the injured leg, and had to be carried to the Locker Building in the arms of two of his teammates.

Immediately a buzz of excited conversation rose.

"That hurts our chances in England, doesn't it?" inquired one of the officials.

"Yes, it does. Hotchkiss was good enough to win over the Cambridge man in case anything should happen to the Oxford man, Vare. He didn't have a chance to beat Vare because Hotchkiss has never done as well as 23 feet, while Vare is a consistent performer at several inches better."

"The broad jump is one of the events that we've got to count out, then, isn't it?"

"It certainly is now," said the trainer. "If Armstrong had a year more of experience he'd give the Oxonian a good battle. Armstrong is a natural jumper, but has not perfected his form yet. It will take another year."

When the excitement over the injury to Hotchkiss had passed, the trials continued and Armstrong created a ripple of interest when on his last trial he came within an inch of the coveted 23-foot mark.

The result of the contest in the broad jump was that Armstrong, representing Yale, and McGregor, representing Harvard, were selected for the team. In all, twenty-six men were chosen that afternoon for the fourteen events to be contested in England, fourteen from Harvard and twelve from Yale. These men were the very flower of both teams. In the hammer and shot events only two from each college were selected since the best hammer throwers were also the best shot putters.

To say that it was a jubilant quartet of boys who tumbled off the train at Milton, would be expressing it in weak terms.

"Open up the cupboard," cried Frank after the home greetings were over. "You have four champion diners with you to-night."

"A little soup, slice of mutton and toast for the athlete, Mrs. Armstrong. Frank isn't allowed to eat anything rich, you know, training table grub and all that."

"You chase yourself around the block, Mr. Codfish. The training table has a rest for a solid week—apple dumplings, strawberry shortcake and all the fixings belong to me."

"Seems as if you had earned it, son," said Mr. Armstrong.

"Grand little muscles, Mr. Armstrong," said the loquacious Codfish. "Nice, hard and knotty, warranted pure steel, made in Germany—just feel them, best set in Yale—delivery of goods guaranteed——"

The dinner gong cut the speaker's flow of language short, but at the table he kept the conversation moving at a lively pace.

"Well, boys," said Mr. Armstrong, edging into the torrent of talk, "do you like Yale as well now as ever?"

"Yale is great stuff," came the ready chorus.

"It would be better if we didn't have so many studies," added the Codfish.

"How's that?"

"Well, a fellow just gets settled down to doing something like baseball or football or track athletics when the recitations break in. And the profs. get so peeved when a fellow isn't up to form that they have an unkind habit of flunking him."

"And do you flunk, Mr. Gleason?" inquired Mrs. Armstrong.

"Does he flunk! O, my!" laughed Jimmy.

"I hold the record in the class," said the Codfish proudly. "Four in one day. Such a successful flunker that I have three conditions for next year."

"Conditions, what are they?"

"O, just little attachments that they sometimes put onto Freshmen," laughed Frank.

"Have you any, Frank?" inquired his father.

"In athletics a fellow has to keep up to the scratch, you know. If he doesn't, he can't go into athletics. The Codfish is the free-lance."

"Yes, he's gone into everything," interjected Jimmy, "and so far hasn't won a battle."

"O, but he will," said Mrs. Armstrong.

"Thank you for your confidence," said that individual rising and making a sweeping bow. "'Familiarity breeds contempt,' so they say, and my familiar roommates fail to see the outcroppings of genius as clearly as you do. I've nearly won several battles already."

And then Jimmy gave the history of the Codfish's unsuccessful onslaughts on the News, the Crew and the Mandolin Club to the amusement of the older members of the family.

"The difficulty is," said the Codfish, "that the individual has no chance at college. It is all for the development of the average man, like Jimmy there, for instance. Genius is frowned upon. I could have revolutionized the News if they'd given me a little longer chance at it."

"Demoralized it, you mean," said Frank. "Mother, give me another piece of that shortcake. My, but it tastes good after so much training table."

Training hours were broken that night, and for several nights to come, for the boys played with as much vigor as they worked. But Frank did not neglect his physical training. Swims at Seawall, where our friends foregathered for the first time several years before, rowing, and walks in the country, kept him in trim for the work which was to come.