When it came Greg’s turn he avoided most of the fancy figures that the other fellows had shown off amid much applause.  Still, Greg showed a bewildering assortment of “eights,” “double-eights” and some magnificent work along the “turn promenade” order that Ripley had been doing before the accident.

Then Greg came in, promenading backward on his skates.

“I’m going to fall,” he called to the judges, “but it will be intentional.”

“Fall it is, then,” nodded Sam Edgeworth, one of the judges.

Greg was moving jauntily along, still doing the backward promenade.  Suddenly one of his skates appeared to catch against the other.  Down went Greg, backwards.  Despite his announcement the moment before, a sympathetic murmur went up from many of the onlookers.

But Greg, sitting down suddenly as he did, pivoted around like a streak.  Throwing his hands back of his head, he sprang to his feet.  At the first he was doing the forward promenade.  The whole manoeuvre, including the fall, had occupied barely four seconds.  Now, wheeling into the back promenade Greg glided before the judges.

“Time,” called the holder of the watch.

“I’m willing,” nodded Greg.  “And I’m willing any contestant who wants should try my stunt before the verdict is given.”

The conference between the judges did not last long and Greg got the decision.

“The freshman mile will come along later,” announced Ben, through the megaphone.  “The committee want to put in a freak race first.”

The “freak” was a quarter mile, nearly go-as-you-please.  In this race each contestant had on his left skate, but no skate on the right foot.  The contestant who reached the finish line first won—–­“even if he slides on his back,” Ben announced, sagely.

Tom Reade hurried onto the ice as one of the entrants in this race.  He had practiced it well, and won it easily, securing a silver medal.  Greg’s prize had been a gold medal, but over this fact Tom allowed himself to feel no envy or disappointment.

Several other events came along in quick succession.  Everyone seemed to forget that the freshman mile had not yet been skated.

It was called last on the list.  Just as the skaters were moving forward some one detected a figure hurrying down the slope over the snow.

“Here comes Dick Prescott!”

“Is he going into the race after all?”

A lively burst of cheers greeted the freshman as he reached the edge of the ice.

Dick looked as cheery and as rosy as ever.  No onlooker could see that Prescott’s late adventure had injured him in the least.

“Going to race, Dick?” called some one.

“Surest thing,” laughed the freshman, “if I can find my skates.  If not, I’m going to try to borrow a pair of the right size.”

“Here are your skates,” called Laura Bentley, gliding forward over the ice.  “I picked them up for you, and I’ve been holding ’em ever since.