“How far has this Softy ski jumped?” he asked the Coach, finally.
Upon this point, however, Coach Turner was non-communicative.
“You’ll find out the day of the meet,” he said.
Seventeen of an enrollment of two hundred were entrants in the famed ski jump which was the event responsible for the big turn-out of spectators. Seldon Prep was one of the few northern schools giving attention to ski jumping and the fact was recognized by news reel camera men who stationed themselves below the incline with cameras commanding a range of the landing area. With ice skating and bob-sled races out of the way, the course along the ski slide and beyond it was lined with a colorful winter crowd. The sky was overcast with just a suggestion of snow in the air. Newspapers, having gotten wind of the Southern boy’s participation in the meet, had advertised Reed Markham as the “dark horse” so that spectators were discussing him and trying to pick him out.
Seldon’s method of operating the ski jump was a system of her own. Sam Hartley, as defending champion, was entitled to jump last. The other competitors were required to draw lots for places and a sober-faced Reed winced as he found that he had drawn number “one.”
“So I’ve got to start the meet,” Reed murmured to himself. “Here’s a tough break right off.”
“Remember,” warned Coach Turner, who was the official in charge, “for distance to be counted on your jumps, you must land clean, on your skis, and continue. What happens after that, of course, is of no consequence. But no jumps will be recognized if the jumper falls in landing. Is that clear?”
The contestants nodded and looked to their skis. All were atop the hill which provided a fine view of the surrounding country ... the Seldon Prep school buildings and grounds on the right ... straight ahead and precipitately down in the valley—the town of Seldon. The Rapid River separated the town from the school property. The clearing in which the skiers were to land was a park on the Seldon Prep end of the bridge. Skiers completing the jump successfully would carry on, passing over the bridge and coming to a stop on the other side the river. Either that or turn their skis sidewise and bring up short, risking a tumble into the banked snow on the sides around the clearing. To the left, looking from the top of the hill, was open country. The landscape today looked particularly attractive since a thin coating of additional snow had fallen the night before. The sliding lane was dotted black with humanity ... the dots merging into a blotter-like area below where the skiers were to finish.
“Suppose you’re all ready to take us?” queried Sam as he skied over beside Reed who had knelt to be sure his feet were firmly fastened to the skis.