Ben Badger came to the shore edge of the ice, megaphone in hand announcing in stentorian tones:
"Our friends are safe—-even jolly. The sports will now go on!"
First on the card was a free-for-all dash of a half mile, standing start. The trophy was a regulation target revolver.
Badger, of the first class, and Purcell, of the sophomore, held the lead and all but tied each other at the outset. Third in order came Stearns, the agile little right end of the eleven. When half the distance had been traveled it was noticed that Stearns was creeping up on the leaders.
"Look out, Ben, or the little fellow will get you!" roared friends.
Stearns continued to gain, slowly. Purcell dropped back to third place. None of the other eight in the race seemed likely to do anything effective.
"A little more steam, Ben!"
"Stearns, you can get it!"
In the last eighth of the distance Stearns made good. Summoning all his football wind and speed the little right end closed and shot ahead. Not once in the remainder of the course did Ben Badger quite catch up with his smaller opponent. Stearns won by some fifteen yards.
The racers came slowly back, breathing harder than usual. As soon as jovial Ben felt equal to the task of further announcing, he picked up the megaphone, shouting: