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 Dick 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.

Dick 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, Dick?" 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 Dick. "Thank you
a thousand times."

Dick 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, Dick 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!

Dick, 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 Dick 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
Dick 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, passed
Dick at the turn.

"Hardly