Both Bill and Jack had been betting pretty freely on their success, and both felt certain that they would win. But a momentary look of anxiety had crossed their faces as Rob and his chums flew by. There was no denying that their pace was tremendous. The Aquebogue team, which had arrived on an early train, followed the “Eagle” down the hill, but did not seem to make such good time. Still, it was possible that, as defenders of the cup, they were not showing all they could do.
“We can beat them with a ton of hay tied on behind,” sneered Jack Curtiss, as he watched the Aquebogue Wolves make their practice trips. His words seemed justified by the speed their own sled made. Like a varnished streak, she shot down the hill again and again, each time wearing her runners smoother and making better time.
And so the morning wore away. The afternoon was devoted to the small races, Ernest Thompson and Joe Digby, of the Eagles, winning two prizes to their great delight. Some of the Hawk boys, too, captured events. But the feature of the afternoon was Paul Perkins’s winged sled, which cavorted and flopped about to the huge delight of the crowd, and to the terror of the lad’s mother, who was among the onlookers. At four o’clock the minor events were all over and there only remained the silver cup to be contested for.
The Aquebogue Wolves, all strapping youths, considerably older than the Hampton boys, strode about the town confidently during the evening, although the talk of the Hamptonites must have disturbed them a little. The teams from the other contesting towns also talked big, but that seemed to be more to keep up appearances than anything else.
“Gee, the time seems as if it would never pass,” said Tubby, as after supper the lads hastened back to the hill. The electric lights were glowing now, casting a yellow radiance over the snow. Few people were on hand as yet, however, as the race was not to start till eight o’clock.
The few that were on hand were warmly muffled up in furs and heavy overcoats. Of course, there were plenty of small boys about, playing all manner of tricks on one another to keep warm, and hurling snowballs at persons they deemed good-natured enough not to resent it—and at others, too. What boy doesn’t enjoy “a chase”?
The sleds which were to take part in the race were lined up in readiness near the starting point. While the crews had been at supper various persons had been left in charge of the sleds. Rob and his chums had found a youth, who was quite a character in the village, to take care of theirs. This lad’s name was Sim Bimm.
Whether it was caused by his name—which rhymed, or by natural gift that way, nobody knew, but Sim Bimm had difficulty in saying anything in prose. On the contrary, rhyming marked his conversation. He was reputed to be half-witted, but in some things he was shrewd enough. For lack of a better guardian the boys had singled Sim Bimm out.
“Now, Sim,” Rob had said impressively, “there’s a dollar coming to you if you watch our sled carefully. Don’t let anyone come near it or touch it in any way. Do you understand?”
“Right and true, I’ll watch for you,” responded Sim, giving vent to his peculiar mode of expression.