The Ripley flag still floated proudly from the top of the pole. Bill Stiles and his followers, hot, victorious, husky-voiced and tired, marched around the field. They had won the second event, and Ripley was crowned with glory.
Owen Andrews picked up his tin horn. It was now a battered and twisted wreck.
Andrews looked at it sadly, put it to his lips, and, with a tremendous effort, managed to draw forth a thin, dismal groan.
“Too bad it didn’t last for just one more blow,” put in George Clayton.
“Why, Bill number one?” demanded Stiles.
“Because I intend to enter Ripley,” answered George, calmly.
The hoots, yells and jeers which this remark brought forth from the Thorntons filled the hearts of the Ripleys with pure, unalloyed joy.
“I say, Joe Preston,” remarked Fred Winter, abruptly, “I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“That you wouldn’t do a stroke of work on the history of our trip.”