Rob fell in obediently with the squad, and presently learned what it was all about. There was to be a team race of one mile with Hillbury six weeks later, at the great invitation winter meet of the Boston Athletic Association. Some other events besides this race were open to Seaton, and a considerable interest in the meeting had been worked up by Strong and Collins the trainer. Salter, a fat, good-natured senior, the butt of many a joke, but at the same time a favorite with the jokers, acted as captain's assistant. It was Salter who undertook to time Owen on his trial run on the wooden outside track that lies in a big, uneven oval in the hollow behind the gymnasium. When Owen, aglow with warmth despite uncovered ankles and the icy air of February, slowed down a dozen yards beyond the finish line and turned about to learn his time, the fat boy in the big ulster and tweed cap was not to be seen. He had hurried off to find Collins, leaving the runner to take care of himself. This circumstance, taken with the physical reaction which promptly set in, and the frigidity of the wind which whistled past his bare legs and bellied out his thin running trousers with a cold storage blast, did not encourage Rob in his experiment. He trotted back into the gymnasium, in ill humor with himself and the authorities, convinced that running was not his proper athletic forte, and stoutly resolved to have no more of it. He was still engaged in piling up fresh arguments to this effect, while he hurried his dressing so as to get back to the tricky geometry original which had caught him in its time-consuming labyrinth. As he buttoned his collar, the tweed cap and voluminous ulster hove in sight. "I stopped to see Collins," said Salter, "and tell him what good time you made. It's the best any new fellow's done this year!" Owen stared. "I thought it wasn't any good. I was making up my mind to cut the whole business; I'm not made for a runner." Salter looked shocked. "Oh, come now, you don't mean that! Why, I told Collins that you were just the man he was looking for to make out the team with Strong, Benton, and Rohrer. You'd be a fool to give up a chance like that to win against Hillbury." "Or maybe to lose the race for Seaton," Rob replied with some bitterness. "No, I thank you. On a short dash I might do something,--I used to be pretty good at beating out bunts,--but this quarter-mile business is beyond me." "Didn't I say your time was better than any other new man has made?" demanded Salter. "But what about the old ones?" Owen retorted. "Strong and Rohrer can beat it, and Benton probably, but that was your first attempt. You can improve on that." "So can a lot of other fellows. Here, let me through! I've got to get home and finish an original." But Salter still blocked the way. "What is it? Tell me and I'll start you on it." Owen gaped incredulous. "You couldn't do it offhand!"