"Well, some kind of an old berg. I wish—" Harry paused and walked for a minute in silence. Then she turned with sparkling eyes. "I know!" she cried.
"What do you know?"
"There's just one—person here that would stand any chance with Iceberg."
"Who is he?"
"It isn't a he," answered Harry mysteriously.
"Not a he? Then who—what—?"
"It's me, stupid!"
"You? But—"
"Now don't you go and make a lot of objections," cried Harry. "I know I'm not a boy, but I belong to the school—and I can skate; you ask any of the boys; ask Chub or Jack—or Horace. So it's all settled. All you've got to do is to write and tell Hammond that we'll race her any afternoon that the ice will bear. But you needn't say it's me, you know. See? Tell them we haven't decided yet—No, that wouldn't be the truth, would it, for we have decided; at least, I have. Just tell them that—that we'll race them, and don't say anything about who."
"That's great," laughed Roy, "and if Jack—and Horace—are willing, I am. And I hope you'll beat him, Harry. How far do you want to race? They said any distance."