almost crushes the flowers in her
hand; she had been quite sure that Peter would be first. Carl Schummel
is next, then Ben, and the youth with the red cap. A tall figure darts
from among them. He passes the red cap, he passes Ben, then Carl. Now
it is an even race between him and Hans. Madame van Gend catches her
breath.

It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him. Hilda's eyes fill with
tears. Peter MUST beat. Annie's eyes flash proudly. Gretel gazes with
clasped hands--four strokes more will take her brother to the columns.

He is there! Yes, but so was young Schummel just a second before. At the
last instant Carl, gathering his powers, had whizzed between them and
passed the goal.

"Carl Schummel, one mile!" shouts the crier.

Soon Madame van Gleck rises again. The falling handkerchief starts the
bugle, and the bugle, using its voice as a bowstring, shoots of twenty
girls like so many arrows.

It is a beautiful sight, but one has not long to look; before we can
fairly distinguish them they are far in the distance. This time they
are close upon one another; it is hard to say as they come speeding back
from the flagstaff which will reach the columns first. There are new
faces among the foremost--eager, glowing faces, unnoticed before.
Katrinka is there, and Hilda, but Gretel and Rychie are in the rear.
Gretel is wavering, but when Rychie passes her, she starts forward
afresh. Now they are nearly beside Katrinka. Hilda is still in advance,
she is almost "home." She has not faltered since that bugle note sent
her flying; like an arrow still she is speeding toward the goal. Cheer
after cheer rises in the air. Peter is silent, but his eyes shine like
stars. "Huzza! Huzza!"

The crier's voice is heard again.

"Hilda van Gleck, one mile!"

A loud murmur of approval runs through the crowd, catching the music in
its course, till all seems one sound, with a glad rhythmic throbbing in
its depths. When the flag waves all is still.

Once more the bugle blows a terrific blast. It sends off the boys like
chaff before the wind--dark chaff I admit, and in big pieces.

It is whisked around at the flagstaff, driven faster yet by the cheers
and shouts along the line. We begin to see what is coming. There are
three boys in advance this time, and all abreast. Hans, Peter, and
Lambert. Carl soon breaks the ranks, rushing through with a whiff! Fly,
Hans; fly, Peter; don't let Carl beat again. Carl the bitter. Carl the
insol