And what of Harry? Long as this takes to tell, it was all a matter of less than a minute. Harry had rushed in a glorious, thrilling whirl down most of the run—the worst was over. He was now on the long steep straight, and there were only small corners to get round. The cold air seemed to whistle in his face and make his eyes stream, for he was travelling at a very high speed. And then—then he saw the terrible sight. A horse and sleigh was standing across the run!
There were only a few seconds to think what to do as he flew onwards. But Harry did not lose his head. At one glance he had noticed that the horse and not the sleigh was across the run. The driver was round at the back, fixing up a log that had slipped. Lying very flat, and guiding himself straight as an arrow, Harry kept his course, and passed like a flash beneath the horse, between his four great legs! He was safe!
The three boys, watching from the top, threw their caps in the air, and cheered and laughed for joy! Hugh, standing by “Shuttlecock,” his teeth clenched, gave a sigh of relief. “Thank God!” he said. “Thank God! He’s a sporting kid, right enough, and he’s got some wits to have done that—it was his only chance!”
No one at the hotel laughed when they heard the story. Harry was thoroughly scolded, of course. But everyone looked at him with admiration. “Some day he’ll be the champion on the Cresta,” said an old Colonel, who had won the Grand National many years ago.
A Midnight Adventure
Wolf Cub Pat Shannon awoke with a start, and sat up in bed. He had been far away in the glorious land of dreams, driving a Rolls-Royce motor car. It must have been the happy week he had spent since Christmas, riding on his scooter, that had made him dream this, for his Uncle Patrick had brought him a scooter from London for a Christmas present. It was a real beauty, with solid rubber tires and nice big wheels, and it had cost 7s. 6d.! Pat had learned to get up a tremendous speed upon it.
“Shure, it’s a danger ye are to the pedestrians!” his uncle had said one day, on meeting him rushing down the street of the little Irish town where he lived. Pat had not a notion what a pedestrian was; all he knew was that it made his uncle buy him a real bicycle bell and screw it on the handle of his scooter!
Now he had been suddenly roused from his dreams. He sat up in the darkness and listened. Yes, it was his mother’s voice. She was sitting up, he knew, with baby, who had bronchitis. He was the only man in the house, his father being at the front with his regiment, the Royal Irish Fusiliers. He had wanted to sit up, but his mother had told him to go to bed, and she would call if she wanted help. Now he heard her.
“Pat—Pat—Patrick Michael!” Her voice seemed somehow frightened.
“Yes, mother!” he called, scrambling out of bed. In a moment he was pattering down to the kitchen, barefooted, in his little nightshirt.