“Magnificent jump!”
“How in the world did you do it?”
“I don’t know myself,” confessed Tom, with a laugh. “I just had to—that’s all.”
“Are you hurt, Tom?” demanded Jack, anxiously, as he skated up to his chum. “Did his skate hit your ankle?” for well he knew the agonizing pain that follows the blow of the point of a skate against that tender part of the foot.
“No, not a bit,” replied Tom. “His skate just glanced off mine, but I’d have gone down if I hadn’t jumped. Is Heller hurt?”
“I guess not much, though he’s limping to the finish. It would serve him right if he was. He deliberately fouled you.”
“I think so myself, but I’m not going to say anything.”
“Well, maybe it’s best. Class honor, you know.”
The officials of the race were marking down the time, and formally declaring Tom the winner, with Bruce Bennington second and Peter Ranson, of the Sophomore class, third. The Juniors were not in the race at all, much to their disappointment.
“I—er—I presume your collision with Fairfield was an accident—was it not, Heller?” asked Professor Livingston Hammond, the fat and jolly professor who had acted as one of the officials. “We saw it from here.”