The Junior Classics, vol 6 | Page 5

we can see. Katrinka is
ahead!
She passes the Van Holp pavilion. The next is Madame van Gleck's.
That leaning figure gazing from it is a magnet. Hilda shoots past
Katrinka, waving her hand to her mother as she passes. Two others are
close now, whizzing on like arrows. What is that flash of red and gray?
Hurrah, it is Gretel! She, too, waves her hand, but toward no gay
pavilion. The crowd is cheering; but she hears only her father's
voice,--"Well done, little Gretel!" Soon Katrinka, with a quick, merry
laugh, shoots past Hilda, The girl in yellow is gaining now. She passes
them all,--all except Gretel. The judges lean forward without seeming
to lift their eyes from their watches. Cheer after cheer fills the air: the
very columns seem rocking. Gretel has passed them. She has won.
"GRETEL BRINKER, ONE MILE!" shouts the crier.
The judges nod. They write something upon a tablet which each holds
in his hand.
While the girls are resting,--some crowding eagerly around our
frightened little Gretel, some standing aside in high disdain,--the boys
form in line.
Mynheer van Gleck drops the handkerchief, this time. The buglers give
a vigorous blast.
The boys have started.
Halfway already. Did ever you see the like!

Three hundred legs flashing by in an instant. But there are only twenty
boys. No matter: there were hundreds of legs, I am sure. Where are
they now? There is such a noise, one gets bewildered. What are the
people laughing at? Oh! at that fat boy in the rear. See him go! See him!
He'll be down in an instant: no, he won't. I wonder if he knows he is all
alone: the other boys are nearly at the boundary-line. Yes, he knows it.
He stops. He wipes his hot face. He takes off his cap, and looks about
him. Better to give up with a good grace. He has made a hundred
friends by that hearty, astonished laugh. Good Jacob Poot!
The fine fellow is already among the spectators, gazing as eagerly as
the rest.
A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters as they "bring
to" and turn at the flagstaffs.
Something black is coming now, one of the boys: it is all we know. He
has touched the vox humana stop of the crowd: it fairly roars. Now they
come nearer: we can see the red cap. There's Ben, there's Peter, there's
Hans!
Hans is ahead. Young Madame van Gend 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. The others
are pressing close. 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 bow-string, shoots off
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