“Were you knocked off the road?” asked Harry, a little hesitantly.
“I lost the race, and that’s all there is to it,” said Fred, doggedly.
“All right, go on,” Harry dismissed him.
“Joe put out his hand and gave him a big push,” said Polly, watching Fred as he trudged up the hill. “If I was Fred I’d tell him what a cheat he is. I never could stand that Joe Anderson.”
“I didn’t see him do anything,” declared Margy, mildly.
“You never do see anything,” retorted Polly, for, gentle as she was, any unfairness always roused her, and once “woke up,” as Jess called it, she was not easily soothed.
“I’m afraid we were asleep at the switch, Margy,” said Harry Worden ruefully. “This time I mean to glue my eyes on the road and keep them there.”
“But Fred must know he cheated,” argued Polly.
“Well, you see, Fred’s idea of a good loser is one who doesn’t grunt,” Harry tried to explain. “He’d rather say nothing than be thought complaining because he failed to win.”
Polly was not convinced, but she said nothing more. And she and Harry and Margy stared at the white road till their eyes ached, waiting for the two black specks to come toward them.