The High School Freshmen Part 35

"The freshman mile will come along later," announced Ben, through the megaphone. "The committee want to put in a freak race first."

The "freak" was a quarter mile, nearly go-as-you-please. In this race each contestant had on his left skate, but no skate on the right foot. The contestant who reached the finish line first won---"even if he slides on his back," Ben announced, sagely.

Tom Reade hurried onto the ice as one of the entrants in this race. He had practiced it well, and won it easily, securing a silver medal. Greg's prize had been a gold medal, but over this fact Tom allowed himself to feel no envy or disappointment.

Several other events came along in quick succession. Everyone seemed to forget that the freshman mile had not yet been skated.

It was called last on the list. Just as the skaters were moving forward some one detected a figure hurrying down the slope over the snow.

"Here comes d.i.c.k Prescott!"

"Is he going into the race after all?"

A lively burst of cheers greeted the freshman as he reached the edge of the ice.

d.i.c.k looked as cheery and as rosy as ever. No onlooker could see that Prescott's late adventure had injured him in the least.

"Going to race, d.i.c.k?" called some one.

"Surest thing," laughed the freshman, "if I can find my skates.

If not, I'm going to try to borrow a pair of the right size."

"Here are your skates," called Laura Bentley, gliding forward over the ice. "I picked them up for you, and I've been holding 'em ever since.

"That's what I call mighty good of you," glowed d.i.c.k. "Thank you a thousand times."

d.i.c.k sat down on a wooden box. He could have had the services of half a dozen seniors to fasten on his skates, but he preferred to do it for himself.

Clamps adjusted, and skates tested, d.i.c.k struck off leisurely, going up before the starter and judges. These were grouped near the starting line.

"Standing start," announced Ben. "Each man exactly to the line.

Pistol signal. False starts barred, and the usual penalties for fouling. Get on line, all!"

Then the starter moved forward, pistol in hand.

"On your marks!"

"Get set!"

Bang!

d.i.c.k, at the left end of the line, crouched forward somewhat.

Nearly the whole of his right runner rested on the ice. His left foot was well forward, the toe of the skate dug well into the ice. His right arm pointed ahead, his left behind.

Crack! At the sound of the shot d.i.c.k let his right foot spring into the air. As it came down, ahead, he gave a vigorous thrust with his left. The style of start was his own, but it worked to a charm. A hearty cheer went up when the spectators saw that d.i.c.k was leading by five yards.

At the first turn, however, Prescott's adherents---and they were many this afternoon---felt a thrill of disappointment. Walter Hewlett, whose skating had been strong and steady so far, pa.s.sed d.i.c.k at the turn.

"Hardly fair, after all," murmured several. "_Of course_, after what he's been through, no matter how much nerve Prescott may have, he can't be anything like up to his usual form."

Had d.i.c.k heard them he would have smiled. He knew that the skating was warming him up and taking away whatever of the chill had been left.

As they neared the second turn the distance between d.i.c.k and Hewlett was about fifteen yards. The other freshmen were far enough behind both not to appear to count.

Now Prescott turned on steam. He reached the second turn only eight yards behind Hewlett, and that latter freshman made the poorer turn.

Down the home stretch now! d.i.c.k began to work deep breathing for all he was worth. Instead of taking slow, deep breaths, he breathed rapidly, pumping his lungs full of air.

That _rapid_ deep breathing started his heart to working faster, sent the blood bounding through his arteries.

It would have been exhausting if carried out too long. But now, on what was left of the home stretch, it acted almost like pumping oxygen into his lungs.

Swiftly the distance melted.

"Hurrah!" rang the yell. "There goes Prescott ahead!"

Not only ahead, but gaining in the lead. Five yards to the good, then ten, twelve, fifteen. d.i.c.k Prescott shot over the finish line a good eighteen yards ahead. Then the victor came to a stop, panting but happy.

Five minutes later, when all the congratulations were over, he skated up beside Laura Bentley.

"You saved my skates for me, Laura, and brought me luck all through.

I want _you_ to have the first ride on that toboggan."

CHAPTER XXI

THANKS SERVED WITH HATE

It didn't take long for the Gridley boys who were most interested in athletics to figure up that three out of the eight prizes offered had gone to the freshman cla.s.s.

More than that, the three freshmen winners were all members of the firm of d.i.c.k & Co., Limited.

"Sat.u.r.day's work, and some other things, show us that d.i.c.k & Co.

are going to be heard from a whole lot in the athletics of future years at this school," Ben told d.i.c.k at recess Monday morning.

"Whew! But I'm sorry I'm not going to be here to watch the progress of you freshmen!"

Monday afternoon, while he was eating the midday meal, just after school had been dismissed, d.i.c.k received, by messenger, a note from Lawyer Ripley, asking the young freshman to call at his office at three o'clock.

Though actually retired, the wealthy lawyer maintained an office in one of the big buildings on Main Street. To this office Mr.

Ripley went once in a while, to transact business.

"As I haven't a dollar in the world," smiled young Prescott, "it is hardly likely that he has been engaged to bring a suit against me. Oh, hang it, I know! He means to thank me for hauling Fred out of the water. What an infernal nuisance!"

For a few minutes d.i.c.k was inclined to disregard the invitation.

He spoke to his mother about it.