The racers turned the end of the pond for the second time and came swiftly past—Harding about the same distance behind the other as before. Again they turned and shot past for the third round, the stranger still pursuing his tactics of interfering with his rival.
“Jove, that makes me hot!” Frank exclaimed wrathfully. “I believe Harding could beat him on a fair and square race.”
“Gee, I wish we could make him give way once himself, the scoundrel!” Ernest shook his fist viciously at Sanders’ back.
“If he had to turn out just once would it help Mr. Harding?” demanded Jane.
Her own party were so intent upon the race that no one replied, but Pat, who had just skated up, answered her question himself when he found the others were ignoring it.
“It’d help—but sure Mr. Harding’s too grand a gentleman to do that kind of dirty work!”
“Oh, I just wish we could make him turn out!”
No one heeded her but Pat and he replied only with a grin.
Chicken Little clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. The men had made their last turn and were heading swiftly toward them on the home stretch. Harding had gained a little on his antagonist and was scarcely three feet behind.
“He is gaining—if Sanders will only play fair!” said Frank tensely, his eyes glued on the two dark forms.