Perry looked around. The field was already

emptying. "I'll get my dressing-gown, I guess," he said.

"All right, but don't stand around too long," said Skeet. "I'm going over to see them finish the hammer. Better luck next year, Hull."

He nodded and joined the throng straggling through the gate. Perry hurried back up the field and found his dressing-gown and then, disregarding Skeet's suggestion, he too followed the crowd to where, on the lot behind the field, it had spread itself in a half-circle around the group of hammer-throwers. Perry wedged himself through to where he could see a little.

"Hello," said a voice at his elbow and he looked up into Lanny's smiling countenance. "You ran a great race, Perry. I wasn't needed to-day after all, was I?" He found Perry's hand and clasped it warmly. "Your time bettered the best I ever made in my life. Next year you'll have them standing on their heads, or I'm a Dutchman!"

"Thanks," murmured Perry. "I guess I wouldn't have beaten you, Lanny, if you'd been there. How—how is this coming out? Is there any chance for us to get the meet?"

"No, I think not. Partridge did a hundred and thirty-one and eight inches, I believe, and no one's