"I don't think I can win!" sang out Dave to his chums. "These skates slip too much. But I'll do my best."
"Come on, you slow-coaches!" cried Ben, merrily, and then he shot forward until he was abreast of Nat. Seeing this, the money-lender's son put on an extra burst of speed, and went ahead again.
"Say, Nat Poole is certainly skating well!" cried one of the onlookers. "He'll make a record if he keeps it up."
"I don't think he can keep it up," answered another.
In a very few minutes the turning point was gained, and Nat made a sharp curve and started back. The turn brought him directly in front of Dave.
"Clear the track!" he roared. "Clear the track, I say!"
"Clear the track yourself!" answered Dave. Nevertheless, as Nat came closer, he swerved a little to one side so that the money-lender's son might pass. As Nat swept on he swung his arms freely, and one fist took Dave in the side.
"Foul! foul!" cried several who saw the move.
"It was his own fault!" Nat retorted. "I told him to get out of the way! " And off he started for the finishing line.
Dave said nothing, but kept on, reaching the
