“What?”
“Yes. Look for yourself. They’ve got another sled.”
“The dickens they have! I’ll protest.”
“Better not talk too much. Somebody might know something and squeal, like they did at the aeroplane model race.”
“Looks as if they’d overreached us,” grumbled Freeman Hunt, who, like Lem Lonsdale, was in the secret of Jack Curtiss’ mean trick.
The race was to be run off in heats, on account of the number of contestants. As Jack and his chums were in the first heat, there was no time for more to be said.
“Ready!” cried the starter. Then, as the boys nodded, his pistol cracked, and off darted the gliders, flashing down the hill like so many streaks of brilliant color. Under the bright rays of the suspended electric lights they made a pretty sight, and so the crowd thought, for it cheered them to the echo.
Three heats were run off, and for the finals there lined up the three winners of the preliminary contests. These were the yellow and black Aquebogue Wolves, the holders of the cup, Jack Curtiss’ crew, and the Eagle men on their borrowed sled. Jack had started to make a feeble protest against the loaned sled being entered, but the judges had frowned him down. Afraid that they might have some inkling of who had filed the runners of the “Eagle,” he dared not say more.
The East Willetsons’ sled proved to be all that its owners had claimed for it. It had captured its heat with ease, shooting across the line a good two feet in front of the nearest competitor. The boys’ hearts beat high with hope and excitement. It seemed that there was a chance of their capturing the coveted cup, after all.
“Now then, boys, clap on all sail and come windjamming inter port ahead of the rest of them snow cruisers, or I won’t never speak to you again,” came the voice of Captain Jeb Hudgins from the crowd behind the starting line.