“It was an accident—certainly,” replied Sam, sharply. He had taken off his skates, and came limping up. “I could not help it. My skate struck a small piece of wood, and I slid over toward him. I tried to warn him, but it was too late. If anyone doubts my word—”
“No one dreamed of doubting you—or even mentioned it,” interrupted Mr. Hammond with a smile, yet he looked at Sam narrowly.
“Three cheers for Professor Hammond!” called someone, and they were given with a will. Out on the fringe of spectators stood Professor Skeel, with a frown on his face. No one had cheered him, and he felt no elation that a member of his Freshman Latin class had won the race. In fact, there was a sneer on his face as he saw the ovation accorded to Tom.
“I more than half believe that he wrote that insulting and threatening letter to me,” Professor Skeel muttered. “I must find out, and if he did—” a cruel smile played over his features. “Ah, there is some one else I must have a talk with!” he exclaimed as he saw Bruce Bennington walking along, swinging his skates. “Come here Bennington,” he called, and the face of Bruce went rather white, and there was a nervous air in his manner, not to say a tinge of fear, as he approached the unpleasant instructor.
“Well, sir?” he asked.
“Are you ready to settle with me?” asked Professor Skeel, in a frosty tone.
“No, Professor, I’m sorry to say I am not.”
“When will you be?”
“I can’t say. Really, I am having it harder than you can imagine.”