Kitabı oku: «Tom Fairfield's Schooldays: or, The Chums of Elmwood Hall», sayfa 6
CHAPTER XIII
THE SKATING RACE
“Look at that!” cried Jack.
“See it go!” shouted Bert.
“How did it happen to get away?” the ever-questioning George wanted to know.
“By Jove!” murmured Bruce. “He’d ask questions if it was the end of the world. He’d want to know why it hadn’t happened before.”
“Wow!” came from Tom, as he started after the disappearing iceboat. “That’s bad! I’m responsible for it.” He started off on a run, as though he could catch the skimming craft.
“You’ll never get her!” yelled Bruce to him. He had taken off his skates, and hurried up beside Tom.
“I’ve got to get her!” cried our hero. “She may run against the bank and go to smash.”
“You can’t stop her. She’s too far off. Look at her veer! She’ll capsize in another minute!”
Indeed the unguided craft was slewing about, making quick turns and big circles as the wind blew her. Then Tom cried out:
“I’m going to catch her. Lend me your skates, Bruce.”
“You can’t skate as fast as that boat is going!”
“I can try. Besides I’m not going to do all skating.”
“What then?” asked Jack, curious to know what scheme his chum had in his mind.
“This!” and Tom pointed to the small sail he had been going to rig on the craft when she went off by herself. “I can hold this at my back by the mast, and the wind will blow me along.”
“Good!” cried Bruce, who understood. “That’s the idea Fairfield, here are my skates.”
Tom soon had clamped them on his feet, and then, holding the improvised sail at his back, he headed for the runaway iceboat. The sail was almost like the regular ones skaters use.
Tom soon developed great speed, for the wind was strong and directly at his back. The others started to run after him. The iceboat was some distance ahead, but Tom was rapidly overhauling her.
“I’ll get her before she goes to smash,” he murmured hopefully. The boat suddenly heeled over, and Tom thought surely she was going to capsize. But she righted, and then went off on a new tack. Tom saw his chance.
“I can quarter across and get aboard, if she doesn’t veer again!” he cried, and he altered his course. Nearer and nearer he came to the iceboat, until he saw that he would soon pass her. “If only she doesn’t veer around,” he murmured hopefully.
Fortunately, however, the wind held in that direction for a few minutes, and the main sheet of the sail was caught in such a way as to hold the craft steady.
“Now to do some skating on my own hook!” cried Tom, as he cast aside the little sail. He struck out with all his strength and speed, and, as he came close to the boat, with a leap and a spring he hurled himself into the blanket-covered cockpit, landing with a thud.
It was the work of but a moment to seize the rudder, and put the boat about, so that she was in control, though even as Tom did this she nearly capsized.
“Whoa, now!” he called, as to a restive horse, and then, settling himself down, he sent the boat back on a series of tacks to pick up his chums.
“Say, did you see him skate!” exclaimed Bert Wilson in admiration, as he called attention to the burst of speed on Tom’s part.
“I should say yes,” admitted Jack. “If we have a race I’ll back Tom.”
“He looks like a winner,” commented Bruce quietly.
Tom brought the iceboat up to his chums, and they got aboard. Jack steered while Tom took off the skates he had not had time to remove, and then he went to where he had dropped the little sail.
“I guess we’ll get along without it,” he remarked. “We’re going fast enough.”
“I never thought you’d get the boat in time,” spoke Bruce admiringly. “Where’d you learn to skate, Fairfield?”
“Oh, I could make pretty good time ever since I was a small lad, but I sort of broke my record today, I guess.”
They were soon back at the boathouse, having talked on the way of the little accident and of Tom’s skill.
“You’ll enter for the class races, won’t you?” inquired Reddy Burke of Tom, a little later, when Bruce had told of the Freshman’s skill.
“I’ll be glad to.”
“They’ll come off in about a week if the ice holds,” went on the red-haired athlete.
Practice for the skating races was soon under way. The affair was to settle the championship of the school. Later, intercollegiate contests would be held.
“Going to try?” asked Nick of his crony, when the notice of the ice sports was posted. “I hear Fairfield is a wonder.”
“What do I care? I can skate some myself, and if I can’t win, maybe I can spoil his chances.”
“How?”
“Oh, I haven’t made up my mind yet.”
It was a cold, clear day, the ice was firm and smooth, and it was just right for a skating race. The elimination trials had been held, and the representatives of each class selected. There were four each from the Freshmen, Sophomore, Junior and Senior divisions. Tom, of course, was picked, and so was Jack, and, somewhat to the surprise of many, Sam Heller also represented the first year lads.
“Look out for him,” advised Jack to his chum, when they were getting ready. “If he skates near enough to you he may try some mean trick.”
“I’ll watch out, but I’m not worried.”
“I wonder if he’d be mean enough to squeal to our Latin prof. about the warning letter you wrote?” went on Jack. “I’ve often thought of that. He’s equal to it.”
“Oh, I don’t believe Heller would dare do a thing like that,” spoke Tom. “I’m not alarmed. There, I guess my skates are sharp enough,” for the two had been putting an extra edge on the steel runners in anticipation of the contest.
There was a big crowd present to watch the skaters, who were lined up, receiving their last instructions from the officials. Clamps were being tightened, straps made more snug, and the last little attentions being given.
“All ready?” called the starter.
“Ready!” answered the lads in turn.
“Look out for Sam. He’s quite near you,” warned Jack to his chum, in a low voice. Tom nodded and looked across at the bully, who had his head turned away.
“Go!” cried the starter, and his pistol cracked out on the frosty air.
CHAPTER XIV
WINNING AGAINST ODDS
The skaters were off together, almost like a line of well-drilled soldiers on the double-quick, and, as they glided forward, there came a shrill burst of cheers from the student spectators.
“Rah! Rah! Freshmen! Elmwood Freshmen!” cried the members of that class, to urge on their comrades.
“Boom! Boom! Boomity-boom Seniors! Siss!” came the peculiar cry of the four-year lads.
“Sophomore! Sophomore!
Rah! Rah! Rah!
Going like a trolley car!”
That was the second year boys cheering.
Then came the call of the Juniors:
“June! June, beautiful June.
We’ll win the race and win it soon.
Siss!
Boom!
Rah!
Juniors!”
The line was a trifle broken now, as one or two forged ahead of the others, and among them was Tom. Yet he was holding himself in check, and narrowly watching the others, for the race was not a short one, and he knew the danger of getting winded too early in it, and spending his strength so that he had none left for a final spurt.
Jack was even with his chum, though he was not as good a skater as was our hero. Sam Heller was a little behind, but in practice he had done well, and Tom knew that in his enemy he had a dangerous rival.
Bruce Bennington was skating well, the only one of the Seniors who seemed to stand a chance, while a member each of the Junior and Sophomore class was up in the front now.
“Everyone is holding back,” said Jack to Tom.
“Yes, waiting for a break. I’ve a good notion to give it to ’em, and take a chance.”
“Don’t you do it. Let some one else set the pace. Hold back. We want to win this race for the Freshman class, and we’re depending on you.”
“Hope I don’t disappoint you. There goes Blaisdell for the Juniors. Come on!”
One of the skaters had spurted and at once the others increased their speed to keep up to him. The race was now on in earnest, and soon half the distance was covered, with no one markedly in the lead. Several had dropped out, hopelessly distanced, but there were enough of each class left to make the result doubtful.
“I wonder what Sam is going to do?” mused Nick Johnson, as he watched his crony. “He’d better get busy.”
The skaters had turned, and were coming back toward the starting point. They could hear the cheers of their comrades, and the cries of the followers of the various classes could be distinguished.
“Better hit it up, Tom,” advised Jack.
“I will. Here goes!”
Tom struck out with more speed and power than he had previously used. He imagined he was once more chasing the runaway iceboat, and he gripped his fists and clenched his teeth as he made up his mind to win.
But, even as he spurted, others glided up, almost beside him, and one of them was Sam Heller. Tom watched out of the corner of his eye, and it seemed to him that Sam was edging over toward him.
“I wonder what he’s doing that for?” mused Tom.
So near were they to the finish line now that the calls of the class cheerers came clearly through the cold, crisp air.
“Come on, Freshmen! Come on! Win! Win!”
“Don’t let ’em beat you, Seniors!”
“Skate. Skate. Oh you Sophs!”
“Juniors forever. Juniors to the front!”
Thus the students cheered.
“I’m going to win!” whispered Tom fiercely to himself.
The finish line was a hundred feet away. Tom looked ahead, and saw a confused mass of excited spectators, waving flags and banners, tossing caps in the air, dancing about and uttering yells at the tops of their voices. He looked to left and right and saw on one side of him, Bruce Bennington, and, on the other, Sam Heller. Jack Fitch was not in sight.
“I guess Jack’s out of it,” mused Tom, regretfully.
He gathered himself for a final effort, and, just as he struck out with increased force he saw Sam lurch over toward him.
“Look out!” Tom yelled.
The bully returned no answer. He seemed to have lost control of himself. Nearer and nearer he glided toward Tom.
In vain did our hero try to get out of the way of what in a flash he knew to be an intentional attempt to foul him. But he could not escape without swerving so far to one side as to mean the loss of the race.
“Look out for yourself!” warned Tom, determined to give way no longer, and he braced himself for the shock.
It came an instant later, when Sam’s skate struck Tom’s, staggering him.
“Excuse me!” panted the bully, unnecessarily loud. “I couldn’t help it!”
Tom said nothing, but he thought a lot.
Then he felt himself falling. There was but one thing to do, and Tom did it. He was staggering forward, trying in vain to remain upright long enough to cross the line. The only way he could do it was to gain more momentum than that caused by Sam’s foul interference. That was to jump, and Tom did it.
Up in the air he rose, remembering the time he had cleared barrels on the ice in an obstacle race.
Up and up he went, fairly hurling himself forward. As he did so he had a confused glimpse of Sam Heller sprawling on the ice, and tumbling over and over. Tom also saw Bruce Bennington looking at him in astonishment. Our hero also had a glance at representatives of the Junior and Sophomore classes fairly doubled up in a desperate effort to win the race.
“But I’ll do it! I’ll do it, if I don’t break a skate when I come down, or trip,” thought Tom, desperately.
The jump had accomplished the very purpose for which the plucky Freshman intended it. Just as when you trip, and fall forward, if you can suddenly jump, and equalize the momentum given the upward part of our body, while overcoming the inertia of your feet, caused by the contact with some obstacle – just in this way Tom had jumped.
He saw the finish line but a few feet ahead. The next moment, amid a perfect riot of cheers, he came down with resounding force on the ice, his steel runners ringing out in the frosty air.
For a second he feared that he could not keep his balance, but by a desperate effort he did, and with great speed he slid across the mark, and fairly into the crowd of students bunched beyond it. Tom was unable to stop himself.
A quick glance showed that he was alone when he crossed the finish mark. He had won the race against big odds!
CHAPTER XV
MORE TROUBLE
“Freshmen win!”
“Rah, Freshmen! Elmwood forever! Freshmen win!”
“Hurray for Tom Fairfield!”
“And after a foul, too. He won after a foul!”
“Never mind. We won’t claim it. Maybe it was an accident. Heller may be hurt!”
“Seniors Second! Bruce Bennington is second!”
These were only a few of the cries that greeted the achievement of our hero as he won the school race. He had come to a stop amid a knot of his classmates, who gathered about him, clasping him by the hand, clapping him on the back, and generally congratulating him.
“Great work, old man!”
“Magnificent jump!”
“How in the world did you do it?”
“I don’t know myself,” confessed Tom, with a laugh. “I just had to – that’s all.”
“Are you hurt, Tom?” demanded Jack, anxiously, as he skated up to his chum. “Did his skate hit your ankle?” for well he knew the agonizing pain that follows the blow of the point of a skate against that tender part of the foot.
“No, not a bit,” replied Tom. “His skate just glanced off mine, but I’d have gone down if I hadn’t jumped. Is Heller hurt?”
“I guess not much, though he’s limping to the finish. It would serve him right if he was. He deliberately fouled you.”
“I think so myself, but I’m not going to say anything.”
“Well, maybe it’s best. Class honor, you know.”
The officials of the race were marking down the time, and formally declaring Tom the winner, with Bruce Bennington second and Peter Ranson, of the Sophomore class, third. The Juniors were not in the race at all, much to their disappointment.
“I – er – I presume your collision with Fairfield was an accident– was it not, Heller?” asked Professor Livingston Hammond, the fat and jolly professor who had acted as one of the officials. “We saw it from here.”
“It was an accident – certainly,” replied Sam, sharply. He had taken off his skates, and came limping up. “I could not help it. My skate struck a small piece of wood, and I slid over toward him. I tried to warn him, but it was too late. If anyone doubts my word – ”
“No one dreamed of doubting you – or even mentioned it,” interrupted Mr. Hammond with a smile, yet he looked at Sam narrowly.
“Three cheers for Professor Hammond!” called someone, and they were given with a will. Out on the fringe of spectators stood Professor Skeel, with a frown on his face. No one had cheered him, and he felt no elation that a member of his Freshman Latin class had won the race. In fact, there was a sneer on his face as he saw the ovation accorded to Tom.
“I more than half believe that he wrote that insulting and threatening letter to me,” Professor Skeel muttered. “I must find out, and if he did – ” a cruel smile played over his features. “Ah, there is some one else I must have a talk with!” he exclaimed as he saw Bruce Bennington walking along, swinging his skates. “Come here Bennington,” he called, and the face of Bruce went rather white, and there was a nervous air in his manner, not to say a tinge of fear, as he approached the unpleasant instructor.
“Well, sir?” he asked.
“Are you ready to settle with me?” asked Professor Skeel, in a frosty tone.
“No, Professor, I’m sorry to say I am not.”
“When will you be?”
“I can’t say. Really, I am having it harder than you can imagine.”
“Harder? Don’t you suppose that I have my own troubles, too? Have you appealed to your folks?”
“No, and I’m not going to!” Bruce spoke fiercely.
“You may have to,” and the Latin instructor’s tone was threatening. “I shall not wait much longer, and if you do not make the appeal I shall do so myself.”
“Oh, Professor Skeel, surely you wouldn’t do that!”
“I certainly shall, unless you settle with me soon. I will wait but a little longer.”
“Well, I’ll see what I can do,” spoke Bruce, wearily.
“You’d better,” answered the professor significantly, as he turned aside.
Tom, coming along with Jack and some of his chums, heard the last words, though no one else seemed to have done so. He also noticed the threatening attitude of the Latin instructor, and was aware of the despondent attitude of the Senior student.
“I wish I knew what was up between them,” mused Tom. “I would do a lot to help Bruce. Maybe it’s some trouble about examination papers. And yet I know Bruce wouldn’t be guilty of cheating, or anything like that. I wonder what it is?”
But Tom had little time to think by himself quietly, for his chums were jostling all about him, talking of the race, congratulating him over and over again, while some spoke significantly of Heller’s action.
“Oh, forget that,” advised Tom. “He came out of it worse than I did.”
“I should say yes,” agreed Jack. “He might have broken his leg trying a trick like that.”
Tom’s chums crowded into his room, and that night there was an impromptu and surreptitious little spread, held there in violation of the school rules.
Professor Skeel got word of it through one of the monitors, and went to notify Doctor Meredith.
“Hum, some of the Freshmen eating in the room of young Fairfield, eh?” murmured the good doctor.
“Yes. In direct violation of rule twenty-one. If you come with me now, we can catch them in the act.”
“Hum. Yes! Let me see, didn’t Fairfield win the skating race today, Professor Skeel?”
“He did, certainly, but I don’t see what that has to do with it,” snapped Mr. Skeel.
“Well, perhaps it has. I – er – I think – well, on the whole, I think I won’t disturb the boys tonight, Professor Skeel.”
“What! You will suffer a rule to be broken?”
“Well, in view of the facts, and under the circumstances, I guess it won’t do the rule much harm,” spoke the doctor dryly.
Professor Skeel threw up his hands helplessly, and walked off, muttering to himself. And Tom and his chums were not disturbed that night.
“But I’ll take that Fairfield lad down a peg,” the irate Latin instructor muttered as he went into his house. He sat up late that night, evolving a plan to discover who had sent him the threatening letter, and at last he exclaimed:
“I believe I have it. That will give me a clew. And then – !”
He smiled sourly as he took out the screed Tom had printed, and looked closely at it.
“I will find out who composed that!” he went on, “and when I do he shall suffer for it!”
The Freshman class little realized what it was in for at the hands of Professor Skeel.
It was a day or so after the great skating race, when the Freshmen filed into Latin recitation, that they became aware of something unusual in the air. Professor Skeel looked at them individually and collectively with a mocking smile on his face.
“He’s got it in for some of us,” murmured Tom to Jack.
“Silence!” exclaimed the instructor, banging a ruler on his desk. “I will permit no levity!”
The boys filed to their seats more than usually silent. The professor opened his book, and some one sneezed. It was a perfectly natural and unavoidable sneeze, yet it set off the mine that had been smouldering in the professor’s breast for many days.
“Stop that!” he cried. “If I find that any more of that abominable powder has been scattered about I will, on my own responsibility, personally chastise the guilty student!”
He paused and looked about. Suspiciously he sniffed the air, but there was none of the powder in evidence.
“It was well for the entire class – the entire class I repeat,” he said, “that there is none. Now we will proceed!”
He was unusually severe that day. The slightest slip was noticed, and the culprit was made to sit down with a lesson to write out. Scarcely one escaped, and when an error was made the professor, instead of correcting it in a gentle manner, referred sarcastically to the “imbecility” of the lad, and, in bullying language, demanded to know where he had received his early instruction.
There were murmurs of discontent. Tom flushed angrily when he was needlessly insulted, and there came a look on his face that made Jack Fitch think:
“Tom won’t stand much more of this. There’ll be a blow-up pretty soon, and I’ll be glad of it. So will the rest of the class. Tom has something up his sleeve against Skeel, and the sooner it comes out the better. I’m going to sit tight and watch. It’s time for an eruption!”
The recitation went on, from bad to worse. Student after student was rigged and browbeaten, until even those who had come to class well prepared felt their knowledge slipping from them, and they floundered, and made all sorts of wild answers and impossible guesses as to the right translation.
“It is just what I should expect of a class of cowards who would write an anonymous letter!” snarled the professor. “You must have had nice bringings-up – all of you!”
There were one or two hisses.
“Stop!” exclaimed the teacher. “I’ll not permit that! I will have silence in my classes. Now, Fairfield, try again, and see if you can make any more errors than the last boy!”
Tom, with flushed face, began to recite, but he was stopped almost before he had begun.
“How many times must I tell you that your pronunciation of that word is hopelessly wrong?” snarled Professor Skeel.
“I don’t believe that you ever told me so,” answered Tom quietly.
“Sir!” The professor fairly glared at our hero.
Tom repeated his remark respectfully.
“That’s enough!” cried the teacher. “I will not be insulted by you! Nor by any one in the class! It is evident that none of you know this lesson. You will have it again tomorrow, and, in addition twice the usual amount of Latin to do. I will hammer some knowledge into your heads in spite of yourselves!”
It was a most unfair and unjust task to inflict, and every boy resented it. Yet what could they do? All eyes seemed turned on Tom, and our hero bit his lips to keep back his temper.
“We will pass over this part of the lesson,” went on the professor. “I now want you to print out for me – print out, mind, the following sentences in Latin. You will not write them, but you will print them!”
A gasp of surprise ran around the room.
