Hurtling off the incline, body perfectly poised, the only contestant from the South carried well over the landing field and came down as gracefully as a bird. This time there was no wavering, his return to earth was as beautifully maneuvered as a pilot’s three point landing. There followed a mighty cheer from the crowd!
“Holy smoke!” gasped Sam, staring. “I believe he’s ... yes, sir—that Georgia riddle has topped my mark. The question is—how much?”
A few seconds later the crowd thrilled at the megaphoned announcement that Reed Markham, number one, had been credited with a jump of one hundred and thirteen feet, six inches!
“Hey, Sam!” kidded Tom Carrow who was now third with a jump of ninety-eight feet. “You’ve got your work cut out for you!”
“Don’t I know it?” Seldon’s champion returned. “I can’t let that baby beat me. I’d never hear the last of it—after all the razzing I’ve handed him.”
For the first time since he had come to Seldon Prep, Reed Markham was supremely happy as, with the plaudits of the crowd resounding in his ears, he toiled up the ice-coated hill to the starting place. Let this Sam Hartley person top this mark if he could. Now the ski was distinctly on the other foot! Sam had broken his own mark and he, Reed, who had taken up skiing but a month before, had topped that! Pretty good for a Southern boy who apparently wasn’t considered much good at all!
“Great stuff!” greeted Sam, considerably to Reed’s surprise. “That’s the greatest jump I ever saw!”
“Thanks,” said Reed, and scowled. “What else can Hartley say?” he asked himself, trying to explain the champion’s gesture of sportsmanship. “But I’ll bet those Northerners are really burning up!”
Trying desperately, the defending champion failed to equal even his previous distance on the next two jumps. Reed, meanwhile, reserving his right as the leading jumper, did not take his turns. And, when each of the other rivals failed in their third tries to better the mark, Reed felt his nerves tingling as the fellow he detested strapped on his skis for his last attempt.
“He can’t beat it!” something told Reed. “I’m going to win! I’m just a novice ... a rank amateur ... but I’m going to beat this cocksure Northerner. They will laugh at a Southerner, will they? This’ll fix ’em, and maybe I won’t have something to write Dad!”