See him go! See him! He'll be down in an instant; no, he
won't. I wonder if he knows he is all alone; the other boys are
nearly at the boundary line. Yes, he knows it. He stops! He
wipes his hot face. He takes off his cap and looks about him.
Better to give up with a good grace. He has made a hundred
friends by that hearty, astonished laugh. Good Jacob Poot!
The fine fellow is already among the spectators, gazing as
eagerly as the rest.
A cloud of feathery ice flies from the heels of the skaters as
they "bring to" and turn at the flagstaffs.
Something black is coming now, one of the boys--it is all we
know. He has touched the vox humana stop of the crowd; it fairly
roars. Now they come nearer--we can see the red cap. There's
Ben--there's Peter--there's Hans!
Hans is ahead! Young Madame van Gend almost crushes the flowers
in her hand; she had been quite sure that Peter would be first.
Carl Schummel is next, then Ben, and the youth with the red cap.
A tall figure darts from among them. He passes the red cap, he
passes Ben, then Carl. Now it is an even race between him and
Hans. Madame van Gend catches her breath.
It is Peter! He is ahead! Hans shoots past him.
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