“Go on! Don’t you dare stop a second for me! I’m all right! Sprained my ankle in the queerest way ever, just when I was passing Parker. Stone must have rolled out from under his foot, and right in my way! It made me stumble, and down I came ker-flop! Go on! Beat ’em both out! You can do it! Columbia forever! Oh!”
The last was an exclamation of acute pain. Evidently the patriotic Bones, in endeavoring to wave his hand above his head as he cheered, had given his sprained ankle a new wrench, causing him to nearly shriek aloud.
Frank was almost tempted to stop then and there; but he knew that a sprain, while painful enough, was not dangerous. And one of the fellows far in the rear, who had no chance whatever to win the race, would undoubtedly give poor old Bones a helping hand to some nearby house where he could get a rig to carry him home.
At the same time, upon hearing those significant words uttered by the injured Columbia student, he and Lanky exchanged looks.
It seemed almost impossible that even a tricky fellow, such as Larry Parker appeared to be, could manipulate things so that he might throw a competitor out of the race in this remarkable way. And yet if it were really an accident, then Frank would be forced to believe that Parker must have been born under a lucky star indeed.
“S’pose he did the trick, Frank?” asked Lanky, showing that he too was wrestling over the possibility of such a thing.
“Not unless he’d practiced it a hundred times,” replied Frank. “But it shows you what might happen when you’re trying to get ahead of Parker. Look out for him, and give him a wide berth, Lanky, when you pass him!”
“Huh! how about you?” grunted the other.
“Same here, if I get the chance,” was all Frank said in reply.
Then they lapsed into utter silence again. Talking might be all very well when out for a spin, just to get exercise; but it is the height of folly when pushing along at full speed in a race, with over five miles still to be run.