“Standing start?” asked Dick.
Trevor looked inquiringly at Billings. “Doesn’t matter to me,” growled that youth.
“All right. On your marks,” said Dick. “You’re to skate to the right, around Long Isle, and return here, crossing this line in this way from below. Is that satisfactory?”
Trevor nodded and felt for a hold with his rear blade, and Billings uttered another growl.
“On your marks!—Set!—Go!”
Away they sped, Billings slightly in the lead, having learned the science of quick starting from his hockey experience. They crossed the river diagonally, heading for the down-stream end of the island, Billings bending low, hands clasped behind his back, in the approved style of American racers; Trevor more erect, arms swinging by his sides, and apparently putting forth much less effort than his competitor.
“Carl, can Nesbitt skate?” asked Dick somewhat anxiously. Carl shook his head.
“Don’t ask me. I never met him until the other day. But he can skate; we can see that; the question is how well?”
“I hope he’ll win, if only to shut that bragging mucker up. Hello, look there!”
Carl looked and uttered a groan of dismay. Long Isle, lying almost abreast of the boat landing and about two thirds way across the river, is in reality composed of not one, but two islands, the second, scarcely twenty yards long, being separated from the main expanse at its lower end by a scant two yards of ice-covered channel. This fact had been overlooked, and now the watchers saw, at first with surprise and then with annoyance, that the skaters had parted company. Billings had headed for the channel, while Trevor, holding to a close interpretation of the agreement, was making for the end of the smaller island. The next moment Billings was out of sight; another instant and Trevor too had disappeared.