The Boy Scouts of Lakeville High

by Leslie W. Quirk

"Probably figured that if the race was close, he could get away before the third runner touched him," he offered.

"Oh, you're wrong there." The speaker was Rodman Cree. "I'm sure you're wrong. I know Buck. He isn't that sort at all. He wouldn't even think of taking an unfair advantage."

Bunny happened to be looking at Horace Hibbs, who, in turn, was staring fixedly at the new boy. "I suppose not," agreed the Scout Master, in a tone that was not wholly reassuring. "Anyhow, the use of the block makes trickery impossible; that's why it has been adopted so widely. Well, let's get over to the track."

There was something queer, Bunny felt, in the man's speech. It was as if he suspected somebody's honesty; not Buck Claxton's, perhaps, but—well, somebody's. He couldn't quite make it out.

But once Bunny was lined up beside the cinder track back of the Black Eagles' clubhouse, he forgot everything except the race itself. Everybody was cheering and yelling advice and encouragement; horns were tooting, and somebody who had brought a bell was clanging it madly. It was no time for solving puzzles.

Almost before he realized it, the race began. The crowd gasped suddenly and went absolutely still. A shot rang out; and around the queer, slanting track ran S. S., of the Scouts, and some tall, thin chap of the All-School team, whom Buck had been saving for just this event. Instead of the easy race S. S. had expected, Bunny could see that he was fully extended to hold his own. Side by side the two runners raced, neither able to wrest a yard's advantage from the other. The crowd seemed to have gone mad.

"Get ready, Specs," he heard Horace Hibbs say; and good old Specs, who ran the second relay, walked, trembling with excitement, to the starting line. Bunny puzzled gravely over his teammate's display of emotion and could not understand it, until he recalled that his turn would come presently, and that he must take up the race where Rodman Cree dropped it. His own cheeks reddened hotly, and his fists persisted in clenching and unclenching spasmodically as he waited and waited.

S. S. swept around the last sharp curve, with his body leaning far inward, and held out his little crimson block of wood. Still running by his side, the tall, thin chap thrust forward a blue one. Two clutching hands closed upon them, and Specs and his opponent were off upon the second relay. The race was still nip and tuck, with no advantage to either team.

But there was no holding Specs. He ran as if his very life depended upon eluding the other fellow; and little by little, just an inch or two in each few strides, he forged into a clean lead. Rodman Cree was on the track now, waiting his turn with white, set face and wildly groping fingers. As Specs reached him at last, now a good dozen yards ahead of the All-School fellow, Bunny sucked in his breath. Suppose—suppose something should happen; some accident, say, that would mull things up and worry the new boy.

But none did. As smoothly as clockwork, Specs reached forth a hand with the crimson block, and Rodman grasped it and began to run. There has been no pause, no halt, no delay whatever. And the third man of the Scouts' relay was off with a commanding lead.