Dick Harding heard Jane’s exclamation and waved his hand at her as they swung by. He was about six feet behind the dark man, skating easily with long swinging strokes. Chicken Little waved her red mittened hand enthusiastically in return.
Carol and Ernest, who had been trying to follow the racers along the edge of the pond, pulled up along side for a breathing spell.
“Say, Frank,” exclaimed Ernest, “they say that dark fellow is a professional skater—his name is Sanders.”
“Yes, and Sherm says he’s tricky—he has just come here from some place up on the lakes,” added Carol.
“I’m afraid he has Harding outclassed,” replied Frank watching the racers circle gracefully around the end of the pond and start toward them again. The dark stranger was in the lead and Harding a couple of lengths behind, with the other four spilling out at irregular distances in the rear.
“He keeps crowding Harding out—do you see? He cuts across his path every now and then, but part of the time he only makes a feint so Harding loses a stroke and he doesn’t. I don’t think that’s fair!” Ernest raised his voice indignantly.
Frank watched them a moment keenly before he replied.
“You’re right—that is what he is doing—and it isn’t clean sport. He’s tricky—I’d like to see Harding beat him; but I’m afraid he can’t. He’s soft yet for we haven’t had more than two week’s skating here, and this chap has probably been at it for two months or more up north.”
“Oh, Frank, isn’t he skating fair? Do you think he’s going to beat Mr. Harding?” Chicken Little was genuinely distressed.
“Can’t tell, Chicken, watch and see!”