A dozen cries rang out, Joe shouting with the rest. Harry heard nothing but a strange roaring in his ears. He had passed Ferris, and now he was beside Darry Ford. Then he put on his last ounce of muscle and leaped to the front, passing the line a winner by two yards, with Ford second, and Ferris four yards further to the rear.
“Whoop! Harry Parsons has won!”
“It was a plucky run for young Darry Ford!”
“What’s the matter, Ferris; did your wind give out?”
In the midst of the excitement Joe ran up and caught Harry in his arms.
“I knew you could do it!” he exclaimed, his face shining with joy. “I knew it.”
“It—it was a—a hard race,” panted Harry. “Darry and Ferris shoved me to the limit of my endurance.”
“Wonder what Luke Stout will say now,” went on Joe. He tried to catch Stout’s eye, but the fellow who had wagered his pocket knife on Jack Ferris slunk out of sight behind his beaten champion.
The crowd surrounded Harry, and insisted on carrying him around the fort on their shoulders. Then Andrew Leary gave him his choice of the prizes, and Harry took the powder horn, for his old one was cracked.
“I’m glad you took that,” said Darry Ford. “I’ve been wanting a bullet-mold.”