The Junior Classics, vol 6 | Page 6

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 insolent. Van
Mounen is flagging; but you are as strong as ever. Hans and Peter,
Peter and Hans: which is foremost? We love them both. We scarcely
care which is the fleeter.
Hilda, Annie, and Gretel, seated upon the long crimson bench, can
remain quiet no longer. They spring to their feet, so different! and yet

one in eagerness. Hilda instantly reseats herself: none shall know how
interested she is; none shall know how anxious, how filled with one
hope. Shut your eyes, then, Hilda, hide your face rippling with joy.
Peter has beaten.
"PETER VAN HOLP, ONE MILE!" calls the crier.
The same buzz of excitement as before, while the judges take notes, the
same throbbing of music through the din; but something is different. A
little crowd presses close about some object near the column. Carl has
fallen. He is not hurt, though somewhat stunned. If he were less sullen,
he would find more sympathy in these warm young hearts. As it is,
they forget him as soon as he is fairly on his feet again.
The girls are to skate their third mile.
How resolute the little maidens look as they stand in a line! Some are
solemn with a sense of responsibility; some wear a smile half-bashful,
half-provoked: but one air of determination pervades them all.
This third mile may decide the race. Still, if neither Gretel nor Hilda
win, there is yet a chance among the rest for the silver skates.
Each girl feels sure, that, this time, she will accomplish the distance in
one-half the time. How they stamp to try their runners! How nervously
they examine each strap! How erect they stand at last, every eye upon
Madame van Gleck!
The bugle thrills through them again. With quivering eagerness they
spring forward, bending, but in perfect balance. Each flashing stroke
seems longer than the last.
Now they are skimming off in the distance.
Again the eager straining of eyes; again the shouts and cheering; again
the thrill of excitement, as, after a few moments, four or five, in
advance of, the rest, come speeding back, nearer, nearer, to the white
columns.

Who is first? Not Rychie, Katrinka, Annie, nor Hilda, nor the girl in
yellow, but Gretel,--Gretel, the fleetest sprite of a girl that ever skated.
She was but playing in the earlier race: now she is in earnest, or, rather,
something within her has determined to win. That lithe little form
makes no effort; but it cannot stop,--not until the goal is passed!
In vain the crier lifts his voice: he cannot be heard. He has no news to
tell: it is already ringing through the crowd,--Gretel has won the silver
skates!
Like a bird, she has flown over the ice; like a bird, she looks about her
in a timid, startled way. She longs to dart to the sheltered nook where
her father and mother stand. But Hans is beside her: the girls are
crowding round. Hilda's kind, joyous voice breathes in her ear. From
that hour, none will despise her. Goose-girl, or not, Gretel stands
acknowledged Queen of the Skaters.
With natural pride, Hans turns to see if Peter van Holp is witnessing his
sister's triumph. Peter is not looking toward them at all. He is kneeling,
bending his troubled face low, and working hastily at his skate-strap.
Hans is beside him at once.
"Are you in trouble, mynheer?"
"Ah, Hans! that you? Yes, my fun is over. I tried to tighten my strap, to
make a new hole; and this botheration of a knife has cut it nearly in
two."
"Mynheer," said Hans, at the same time pulling off a skate, "you must
use my strap!"
"Not I, indeed, Hans Brinker!" cried Peter, looking up, "though I thank
you warmly. Go to your post, my friend: the bugle will sound in a
minute."
"Mynheer!" pleaded Hans in a husky voice. "You have called me your
friend. Take this strap--quick! There is not an instant to lose. I shall not
skate this time; indeed, I am out of practice. Mynheer, you must take

it;" and Hans, blind and deaf to any remonstrance, slipped his strap into
Peter's skate, and implored him to put it on.
"Come, Peter!" cried Lambert from the line: "we are waiting for you."
"For madame's sake," pleaded Hans, "be quick! She is motioning to
you to join the racers. There, the skate is almost on: quick, mynheer,
fasten it. I could