Every one was intent upon dressing and no one looked as though expecting thanks. Rindgely, still blowing like a porpoise, was balancing himself on one leg and trying to thrust the other into his trousers, while he explained to Hooker that the track was like mush and no one should be expected to run on it. Hooker, looking amused, grunted as he pulled his shirt over his head. Allan scrambled to his feet and began to dress. He couldn’t help wondering what the others thought of his victory; it seemed rather important to him, but he had never won a race before, although he had taken part in a good many, and so it probably appeared more wonderful than it really was. The trainer stuck his head in at the door. “Hurry up, now,” he commanded. “Get up to the gym, and don’t be afraid of the water when you get there.” This familiar formula met with the usual groans and hoots, and Kernahan grinned about the tent. Starting to withdraw his bullet-shaped head with its scant adornment of carroty hair, the trainer’s eyes fell on Allan. He picked his way over the tangle of legs. “Well, are you done up?” he asked. Allan shook his head. “That’s the boy, then!” continued Billy, heartily. “You’d better come out Monday and we’ll see what you can do. Did you ever run much?” “Some,” answered Allan, “at school.” “Well, you see me Monday.” When the trainer had gone, Hooker called across: “Say, Ware, you’re done for now.” “How’s that?” asked Allan. “Why, when Billy takes a fancy to you, he just merely works you to death. You weigh when you get over to gym and then weigh again, say, three weeks from now. You won’t know yourself.” A laugh went up. Rindgely chimed in with: “You’ll find your work different from winning a mile with a couple of hundred yards handicap.” Allan had only had one hundred and twenty, but he didn’t think it worth while correcting Rindgely, who was evidently rather sore over his defeat. Harris unexpectedly took up for him. “He didn’t have that much handicap, Larry; and if he had, it wouldn’t have made any difference to you, you old ice-wagon. What was the matter with you, anyhow?” Rindgely entered into elaborate explanations, which concerned the state of the track, the injustice of the handicapping, and many other things, and Harris laughed them to scorn. “Oh, you’re just lazy,” he jibed. “Your name’s Lazy Larry.” A howl of delight went up, and Allan looked to see Rindgely become angry. But, after a moment of indecision, he added his chuckle to the general hilarity. Allan turned to Harris. “I was rather done up after the run,” he said, “and some fellow must have lugged me over here. Did you happen to see who he was?” “Yes; one of your class, a whopping big fellow named Burley. Know him, don’t you?” Allan shook his head thoughtfully. “Well, you will when you see him.”