“That’s what I call mighty good of you,” glowed Dick.  “Thank you a thousand times.”

Dick sat down on a wooden box.  He could have had the services of half a dozen seniors to fasten on his skates, but he preferred to do it for himself.

Clamps adjusted, and skates tested, Dick struck off leisurely, going up before the starter and judges.  These were grouped near the starting line.

“Standing start,” announced Ben.  “Each man exactly to the line.  Pistol signal.  False starts barred, and the usual penalties for fouling.  Get on line, all!”

Then the starter moved forward, pistol in hand.

“On your marks!”

“Get set!”

Bang!

Dick, at the left end of the line, crouched forward somewhat.  Nearly the whole of his right runner rested on the ice.  His left foot was well forward, the toe of the skate dug well into the ice.  His right arm pointed ahead, his left behind.

Crack!  At the sound of the shot Dick let his right foot spring into the air.  As it came down, ahead, he gave a vigorous thrust with his left.  The style of start was his own, but it worked to a charm.  A hearty cheer went up when the spectators saw that Dick was leading by five yards.

At the first turn, however, Prescott’s adherents—–­and they were many this afternoon—–­felt a thrill of disappointment.  Walter Hewlett, whose skating had been strong and steady so far, passed Dick at the turn.

“Hardly fair, after all,” murmured several. “Of course, after what he’s been through, no matter how much nerve Prescott may have, he can’t be anything like up to his usual form.”

Had Dick heard them he would have smiled.  He knew that the skating was warming him up and taking away whatever of the chill had been left.

As they neared the second turn the distance between Dick and Hewlett was about fifteen yards.  The other freshmen were far enough behind both not to appear to count.

Now Prescott turned on steam.  He reached the second turn only eight yards behind Hewlett, and that latter freshman made the poorer turn.

Down the home stretch now!  Dick began to work deep breathing for all he was worth.  Instead of taking slow, deep breaths, he breathed rapidly, pumping his lungs full of air.

That rapid deep breathing started his heart to working faster, sent the blood bounding through his arteries.

It would have been exhausting if carried out too long.  But now, on what was left of the home stretch, it acted almost like pumping oxygen into his lungs.

Swiftly the distance melted.

“Hurrah!” rang the yell.  “There goes Prescott ahead!”

Not only ahead, but gaining in the lead.  Five yards to the good, then ten, twelve, fifteen.  Dick Prescott shot over the finish line a good eighteen yards ahead.  Then the victor came to a stop, panting but happy.