The game is made, however, only for strong, stocky men. To see one with a turn of speed, long, shapely legs, and slender body mixed up in a scrimmage, and sure to end in the hospital at last, is more than I can stand. It should not take those unfitted for its fierce struggles, but qualified by nature for other forms of sport. After considerable thought I decided to have Dick try for the running broad jump, and for these reasons: First, the team was weak in this department. Second, this was a trifle his best performance. Third, Dick chose it, as calling for the least labor. Indeed, he absolutely declined distant running, unless he was bound to it by his promise to his mother. So Dick settled down to regular work and practice at the "running broad," and appeared each day as surely as the clock struck the hour; not even Frost, a veteran of four years, was as much to be depended on. Now, there is no more practical school than that of the cinder-path; with given athletic material, a certain amount of work should bring exact results. We look for them just as confidently as the farmer looks for his crops in the autumn, after the planting of the spring and the cultivation of the summer. There may be accidents, just as the farmer has a hail-storm, or like fruit under an untimely frost a man may go stale at the last moment. But, barring accidents, we expect a gradual growth and development in just proportion to the natural ability of the man. Now, strange to say, Dick Fairfax contradicted all known laws; his style improved, and his physical condition as well, but his jump was the same old jump after several weeks of practice. He worked up to an average of nineteen-six, but there he stuck, and no handling, instruction, or care could pull him on to the even twenty feet. Encouragement, blame, the incentives of trial contests, and even ridicule were all the same to Dick. I did all I knew,--and a bit well-informed I claimed to be,--giving him more attention than any three other men. This was partly because I liked the boy, and partly because I received a letter from "The Oaks" once every week asking how Richard was getting on. I have a decided aversion to lying, and I disliked to tell the truth to the lonely woman who looked forward so confidently to her son's success. But most of all I stuck to Dick because of the possibilities I saw in him. His legs were marvels; from toe to thigh, muscle, sinew, and bone were perfect. And yet Seever, with his crooked joints and spindle shanks, could best Dick's best effort by a good foot. I racked my brain for reasons of the failure, but with no result. I tried all possible changes, even to a take-off with the left, but all in vain. Nineteen-six he could do before or after breakfast, and probably at midnight, if tried at that unusual hour. He was the most consistent performer I have ever seen. The trouble was that it was consistency to a distance of no use at all to us.