To begin with, Reed Markham of the Georgia Markhams, had never seen it
snow until his _Pappy_ sent him north to a finishing school. He came of
what has been described as "warm Southern blood" which perhaps
partially explained his feeling that northern schoolmates at Seldon
Prep were "cold" to him.
"No wonder you people have to have steam radiators in your homes!" he
had been reported as saying once, when provoked at Yankee coolness.
But if Reed, fresh from a land rich in the lore of good old-fashioned
hospitality, had felt his sensitive nature react to the more reserved
attitudes of those new to him, he had only to remain long enough for
cold weather to set in to know that the climate was even icier than the
people.
"Brrr!" he murmured, teeth chattering, on the first stinging day of
fall. "Why did Pop ever send me to this part of the country? This is
terrible! I suppose I'll have to go out and get some heavy underwear
and a ... what's that word?... yes--a _winter_ overcoat!"
Soft spoken, soft acting, with soft brown eyes and softer black hair,
Reed Markham had slid softly into Seldon at the start of the school
term. A naturally diffident youth, possessing none too much inclination
to make advances, Reed had resented the failure of fellow schoolmates
to approach him. On the few occasions that they had, his white teeth
had shown, the soft eyes had warmed with a grateful smile and he had
done his best to make friends. But a certain self-conscious
something--a feeling that he was among fellows who thought differently
and acted differently than himself--had always erected a barrier.
Sadly, more often bewilderedly, Reed had realized, even as he was
speaking to a northern schoolmate, that the youth was not opening up to
him. He wondered not a little about this Mason and Dixon line business.
Why should fellows be humanly different just because they lived in
different parts of the country? Weren't they all Americans? Reed
controlled a hot-tempered tongue with difficulty. His softness was a
matter of breeding; his temper a matter of inheritance. A fellow must
be the gentleman at all times--according to the best traditions of the
Markham family. What Reed unfortunately could not know was that his
Southern drawl and his obvious culture had been mistaken by his new
acquaintances for a sense of superiority.
"Thinks he's too good for us!" Sam Hartley, star athlete of the school
had declared, after sizing Reed up. "If this is a sample of Georgia
crackers...!"
But Reed had merely felt, in his retiring way, that he--a
stranger--should be welcomed by the residents of the north and made to
feel at home. Down South, these same fellows would be greeted with
unmistakable signs of hospitality, having only to reflect this warmth
in return to be accepted in the community. For him, however, to make
the first advances in this northern atmosphere, would be a breach of
... well ... call it 'etiquette'...!
The first snowfall Reed had ever witnessed commenced one frigid morning
while he was in school. Great, crystal-shaped wet flakes began drifting
down, much to his amazement and interest as he gazed from his desk out
the window. Yes, he had heard of snow. He had even learned the
dictionary definition for it--'ice in the form of white or transparent
crystals or flakes congealed in the air from particles of water, and
falling or fallen to the earth.' And here it was--in the process of
_falling_! A quite strange and beautiful sight, Reed thought, recalling
pictures he had seen in news reels of snow-covered country, snow
battles and snow slides. There was something cotton-like in the flakes
which nestled on the window sill and fluffily covered it. Reed felt a
twinge in his throat that he knew to be homesickness.
At recess that day, the two hundred other fellows in Seldon Prep made a
mad dash for the out-of-doors, plunging into the thickly falling snow
and scooping up handfuls of it to pack into snowballs. Reed, standing
timidly in the shelter of the doorway, watched a merry battle being
waged, numerous snowballs landing with eye-smacking accuracy. He saw
Sam Hartley, who seemed to be the ringleader, single-handedly stand off
a concerted attempt to roll him in the snow, tripping up his
adversaries, stopping them with whizzing snowballs and dodging back and
forth across the campus, laughing the while.
"It looks like real sport," Reed admitted to himself.
He was not, however, invited to take part. In fact the fellows appeared
oblivious that he was even looking on, having relegated him to the
sidelines in their activities weeks before. To voluntarily enter into
the fun, Reed could never do. Reaching down he caught up a bit of the
snow and crushed it beneath his fingers, watching it melt against the
warmth of his hand.
"Funny stuff!" he said.
At that moment the boisterously engaged Sam detected him and became
suddenly inspired.
"Hey, fellows!" he shouted. "Look at Reed! He's not used to snow. Let's
initiate him!"
And, before the lad from the South could retreat, the Northern army was
upon him. Protesting, Reed was dragged out to the center of the campus
where grinning youths grabbed up the wet snow and applied it none too
gently to his face.
"That's the way--give him the old face wash!" laughed Sam. "How's that
snow feel, Reed? Must be pretty dull down South in the winter time, eh?"
Reed's brown eyes flashed as he renewed his struggles to get free, snow
in his hair and nostrils.
"And now some down his neck!" someone cried.
Reed felt his collar roughly pulled from the neck and a chilling,
spine-tingling sensation as a cold, wet lump went sliding down.
"You guys let me go!" he gasped. "I can't stand this!... Oh!"
"You'll get accustomed to it!" Sam reassured. "This snow is just a
starter. It usually gets three and four feet deep here."
Reed groaned inwardly. Snow might have been nice to look at but it was
far from attractive or pleasant rubbed on his face and shoved down his
back. If the fellows thought this was sport ... and intended to hand
out such treatment through the winter ... well, he'd pack up his duds
and beat it for home. He just didn't fit in this atmosphere anyway. His
father should have known better than to send him to such a place.
"If Pop knew what I have to put up with!" Reed moaned to himself. "I'll
have to write him about it. When he understands...!"
The letter of complaint to the elder Markham was dispatched special
delivery that same night, after Reed had made a complete change of
clothes and taken a hot bath for fear of possible consequences. To his
relief, he contracted no cold, which indicated that he was hardier than
he had supposed, having apparently stood the exposure to snow as well
as his northern schoolmates.
"That's something, anyhow," he said, with a measure of satisfaction.
His father's reply, also by special delivery, proved disconcertingly
unsatisfactory. Rather than sympathizing with his son's growing
predicament and distaste for the north, the senior Markham wrote in
part:
"I'm frankly ashamed of you, Reed. I spent three of the happiest
years of my late boyhood in the north. Did you ever stop to think
that it might not be the other fellows--but you?... Analyze
yourself, my boy, and see if you can discover what's wrong.
"What's a ducking or two in the snow? Haven't I seen you dive
unflinchingly into iced swimming pools? Give me a few dabs of snow
every time.
"I'm afraid the fellows are apt to put you down as a poor sport. I
must tell you, that is the main reason I insisted on your going
north to school ... you were becoming too self-centered. Your boy
friends here knew you too well. They were humoring your weaknesses.
Don't write me, son, unless it's about your triumphs. After all,
you know, you're a Markham ... and, while a Markham may have his
faults, he doesn't quit...."
Reed read and re-read what he considered to be an amazing letter. His
apparently easygoing, soft-spoken father had suddenly spit fire. No
mincing of words here--straight from the shoulder stuff. Even the
South, it seemed, could be cold and unfeeling on occasion. Reed bit his
lips and slipped the letter in a drawer of his desk.
"I won't write Pop at all," he said, with a flare of hurt Southern
pride. "But I'll stick this out, somehow ... or die trying!"
* * * * *
Sam Hartley, of all the fellows Reed had so much as a speaking
acquaintance with, became the most detested. As the winter tightened
its grip and ice and snow sports were more and more indulged in, the
taunting Sam seemed to personify the aggravation of the entire school
in its relation to the student from the South.
"If he doesn't leave me alone pretty soon, something's going to
happen!" Reed decided one day after submitting to considerable torment.
Among other things he had been caught and forced to dive head first
into a five foot drift, being first compelled to climb to the top of a
fence post as the diving point. Such stunts as this but increased
Reed's hatred for snow and further outraged his estimate of northern
fellows.
"They're nothing but a bunch of roughnecks!" Reed denounced in private,
"who take most of their delight in making me miserable! How I'd like to
get even with the crowd of them!"
If wishes had been the father of thoughts, Reed would have been given
the power to douse each of the two hundred fellows in the ice-caked
water fountain which graced the campus. He would have shouted in
fiendish delight at their discomfiture, quite willingly forgetting the
supposed propensities of the gentleman. Even a gentleman, Reed had
about made up his mind, could give vent, under due provocation, to an
expression of righteous indignation. To make the instance more
concrete, his patience was being tried to the point of exasperation.
"I wonder what I might be able to do to turn the tables?" Reed
commenced to ask himself.
* * * * *
There is an old saying that "he who asks a question must find the
answer" or, with equal aptness: "the answer must find him who asks the
question." In this case the answer found Reed in the form of Seldon's
Annual Winter Carnival.
"As you boys all know," announced the dean in chapel one morning, "this
Carnival attracts the populace of the town and surrounding countryside.
It has become an occasion to be anticipated. Particularly the
spectacular ski jumping event down the now famous slide of Seldon Hill.
This season, Sam Hartley, our ski jumping champion has assured me that
he will be out to break his former record jump of one hundred and nine
feet...."
The rest of Dean Hogart's announcement suddenly meant nothing to one
Reed Markham who had been listening, up to this time, with lukewarm
interest. Sam Hartley!... Sam Hartley!... Sam Hartley!... There didn't
appear to be an activity worthwhile in which he did not prominently
figure. Reed was sick of hearing the name mentioned. It was about time
that Mr. Hartley was taken down a few pegs. He had the other fellows
under his thumb. A suggestion from him and they'd all but tear the
school down ... or turn upon the only student from the South to
perpetrate further hazings. How they loved to pick on him! And how this
Sam Hartley person enjoyed his leadership!
"I've dived from a sixty foot perch and I've sailed gliders," Reed
considered, quietly. "I wonder if that's anything like the sensation of
shooting through the air on skis?"
With the Carnival but one month away, the majority of the two hundred
students went into training for the various sporting events to be run
off. The slide, thanks to abundant snow, was in excellent condition
and, the first night of practice, Reed waited in the clearing below the
incline to watch a group of schoolmates, led by the one and only Sam
Hartley, take the jumps.
"Wow!" cried a townsman as Hartley was seen to be whizzing down the
slide, first to take-off from long-established precedent. "What form
that baby has! Look at his forward crouch ... watch him straighten
after he leaves the incline ... there he goes--soaring like a bird!
Isn't that beautiful? Oh! Oh! He spoiled his landing ... took a
header...."
"Yes, I see he did!" commented Reed, with a surge of satisfaction.
But Reed's blood had tingled at the sight of this magnificently built
youth skimming down the slide. Whatever he might think of Hartley
personally, he was forced now to concede that the fellow had a natural
athletic grace which approached perfection. This was the second sport
Reed had seen him in, the first sport having been football.
"This looks like his star event," he estimated. "And it looks like
something I could do if I just had a chance to get in some practice
without the fellows being wise...!"
Skiing, as the boy from the land of no snow was to discover, was not
the easy sport he had imagined. Old Steve Turner, recreational director
of Seldon Prep, had smiled as he had listened to Reed's "confidential"
proposal.
"But why do you want to learn how to ski when the other fellows aren't
around?"
The Southerner's face flushed. "Because I've been laughed at enough,"
he retorted, and felt sorry that he had even brought himself to speak
to the Coach. Northerners were all alike--old or young.
"Perhaps," suggested Old Steve, observing the youth closely, "if you
learned how to laugh at yourself before you tried to learn how to ski,
you'd get along better."
"I guess," was Reed's rejoinder, "you folks up here have a different
sense of humor than I have."
But the upshot of Reed's request that he be taught how to ski in
private, was the granting of a concession by Coach Turner wherein Reed
was to be excused from his last two study hours for skiing practice on
the promise that he would make them up out of school.
"Winter sports are all new to me," Reed explained, his heart warming to
the Coach's unexpected kindness. "The other fellows are taking
advantage of it. But I've stood just about as much as I'm going to!"
"That's the spirit!" Coach Turner encouraged.
Reed Markham had always been a conundrum to Seldon's recreational
director, he was secretly glad to see the boy venturing from his shell.
"You get some skis," the Coach proposed, "and I'll meet you for an hour
every day on the old ball field." Then the Coach's face widened in a
grin. "But, remember, son--you're setting out to learn a strictly
northern sport. You can't take this skiing knowledge back to Georgia
with you and do anything with it!"
"I know that!" flashed Reed, in a revelation of pent-up feeling. "But
you Northerners think you're so darn good in everything ... I'd like to
show you what I can do at your own sport!"
"Go to it!" Coach Turner invited, good-naturedly. "I'll help all I can!"
* * * * *
Curiosity of fellow students was aroused with Reed Markham's continued
absence from the study periods at school and this curiosity was
intensified when it was rumored around by townspeople that the
Southerner had been seen in the company of Coach Turner, both with skis
under their arms, hurrying for the enclosure of the ball field. As the
gates were locked, it was impossible to see what was taking place
within but the inference was evident.
"So Softy's going in for skiing!" Sam Hartley taunted one day as he
encountered Reed on the campus.
The Southerner glanced coldly at the fellow whom he so thoroughly
detested.
"Well, what of it?" he asked, controlling his smoldering temper with
difficulty. This "Softy" nom de plume was a new one.
"Doesn't Softy know that skiing is a he-man's sport?" was Sam's kidding
inquiry. "Softy doesn't like snow ... he hates to be rolled in it.
What's he going to do when he gets his skis crossed going down hill? Or
is he just going to ski on the level?"
"None of your business!" Reed retorted.
Sam laughed and the other fellows with him laughed. The idea of a
Southerner ... this Southerner, anyway, taking up the manly sport of
skiing! Of course the use of the snow was free.
"When you think you're good," Sam continued, "come over on the slide
some night and I'll give you a few lessons on ski jumping."
The fellows winked at one another. If they could ever get Reed Markham
on the slide it would be the greatest sport ever. There was no doubt
about it--he would be a riot. They could just see him now, his first
time down the snow chute, speeding up the incline and floundering off
into space! What a howl!
"Yes," urged Tom Carrow, one of Sam's friends and closest rival in the
ski jump. "Or, better yet--perhaps you can show _us_ something?"
"I doubt that," said Reed, bitingly, "you fellows know all that's to be
known!"
And when he walked off, it was Sam who, looking after him, remarked:
"There goes the queerest duck I've ever met. He's got spunk, though.
Now what the deuce do you suppose he's taking up skiing for? With that
superior attitude of his, I should think he'd consider skiing beneath
him just because we go in for it!"
Efforts to discover Reed's possible intentions from Coach Turner proved
unavailing.
"Reed is preparing for a climactic change which he expects is going to
effect Georgia in the next half century," the recreational director
explained, in all apparent seriousness. "When Georgia's first big snow
comes, Reed hopes to lead his oppressed people from the wilderness...!"
"Applesauce!" branded the inquisitive group about the Coach.
"What if it is?" grinned the director. "I like _applesauce_."
* * * * *
Reed Markham's entry in the ski jumping contest proved the biggest
sensation in the history of the school. Students just couldn't bring
themselves to believe it although reports, the last week prior to the
Annual Winter Carnival, told of Reed's going down the slide. While none
of the school fellows were eye witnesses, some of the townspeople had
paused in their day's occupations to watch Coach Turner and his lone
pupil. They had seen the pupil take three successive tumbles--two at
the take-off. "Nasty spills," as one townsman had characterized it. "If
I'd taken any one of 'em I'd have stacked my skis and called it quits.
But this kid picks himself up and crawls back up the hill to begin all
over again. He listens pretty close to what his Coach has to say and
watches this man Turner take a couple of jumps. Then down he goes
again. You say he's a Southerner and he's been practicing skiing less
than a month? Well, you'd never know it!"
Sam Hartley, meeting Reed after his name had been posted on the
bulletin board as a competitor in the feature event, could not resist a
crack. He noticed as he spoke that Reed was limping.
"Well, so you took my tip and tried out jumping? How'd you like it?"
"Nothing much to it," was Reed's laconic reply.
His superior way again.
"What do you mean, there's nothing much to it?" rejoined Sam, a bit
peeved.
"Not after gliding," Reed explained, "it's rather tame."
"_Gliding?_" repeated a crowd of interested fellows. "Where did you
ever do gliding?"
"Where do you suppose?" Reed asked, his soft eyes burning.
Later, through Coach Turner, who had gained a degree of Reed's
confidence, astounded Seldon Prep schoolmates learned that this quiet
mannered, self-effacing youth, had won the Southern States Gliding
Contest with a flight of six hours and fourteen minutes ... and with a
glider he had built himself. Sam Hartley, when he heard this, spent
some uncomfortable moments running a finger underneath a tight collar
band.
"How far has this _Softy_ ski jumped?" he asked the Coach, finally.
Upon this point, however, Coach Turner was non-communicative.
"You'll find out the day of the meet," he said.
* * * * *
Seventeen of an enrollment of two hundred were entrants in the famed
ski jump which was the event responsible for the big turn-out of
spectators. Seldon Prep was one of the few northern schools giving
attention to ski jumping and the fact was recognized by news reel
camera men who stationed themselves below the incline with cameras
commanding a range of the landing area. With ice skating and bob-sled
races out of the way, the course along the ski slide and beyond it was
lined with a colorful winter crowd. The sky was overcast with just a
suggestion of snow in the air. Newspapers, having gotten wind of the
Southern boy's participation in the meet, had advertised Reed Markham
as the "dark horse" so that spectators were discussing him and trying
to pick him out.
Seldon's method of operating the ski jump was a system of her own. Sam
Hartley, as defending champion, was entitled to jump last. The other
competitors were required to draw lots for places and a sober-faced
Reed winced as he found that he had drawn number "one."
"So I've got to start the meet," Reed murmured to himself. "Here's a
tough break right off."
"Remember," warned Coach Turner, who was the official in charge, "for
distance to be counted on your jumps, you must land clean, on your
skis, and continue. What happens after that, of course, is of no
consequence. But no jumps will be recognized if the jumper falls in
landing. Is that clear?"
The contestants nodded and looked to their skis. All were atop the hill
which provided a fine view of the surrounding country ... the Seldon
Prep school buildings and grounds on the right ... straight ahead and
precipitately down in the valley--the town of Seldon. The Rapid River
separated the town from the school property. The clearing in which the
skiers were to land was a park on the Seldon Prep end of the bridge.
Skiers completing the jump successfully would carry on, passing over
the bridge and coming to a stop on the other side the river. Either
that or turn their skis sidewise and bring up short, risking a tumble
into the banked snow on the sides around the clearing. To the left,
looking from the top of the hill, was open country. The landscape today
looked particularly attractive since a thin coating of additional snow
had fallen the night before. The sliding lane was dotted black with
humanity ... the dots merging into a blotter-like area below where the
skiers were to finish.
"Suppose you're all ready to _take_ us?" queried Sam as he skied over
beside Reed who had knelt to be sure his feet were firmly fastened to
the skis.
Reed gave no answer. In truth, his heart was pounding like mad. He did
not dare venture a comment for fear his voice would quaver. This thing
of demonstrating before a crowd he felt to be hostile; schoolmates
waiting to ridicule, and in a sport he had attempted to master within a
short, concentrated period, had all tended to affect Reed's nerves.
Thousands had watched the glider contest and he had not cared. But
never had he wanted so much to make good ... to give these swell-headed
Northerners a Southern spanking--where it hurt the worst--in their own
sport.
"Each contestant gets three qualifying jumps," announced Director
Turner. "And three chances to better the marks of his opponents. If he
fails he, of course, drops out. Are you ready, Reed Markham?"
"Yes, sir!" said Reed, and wondered in a flashing thought, what his
father would say if he could see him now.
"Course clear!" came the shout from below and the small figure of an
official, looking up, waved a green flag at him.
Conscious that every eye was on him, the fellow from down South
prepared to take-off. He surveyed the incline up which he must shoot
and calculated the breeze which was blowing, taking these factors into
account as though he were about to leave the ground in a glider.
"Well, here goes!" he said, and caught his breath as he whizzed down
the slide.
A white ribbon of snow passed him with almost express train speed; he
saw a kaleidoscopic sea of faces, crazily distorted as he shot
downward; heard the excited murmur of the crowd which broke into a wild
"Ah!" as he crouched and took the air. Below him a rough horseshoe of
humanity, blurred trees, houses, the river ... and down, down, down ...
swooping low ready for the landing ... he was wavering, losing his
balance ... something wasn't quite right....
"A great take-off!" breathed champion Sam Hartley, following the
Southerner's flight. "But he's going to crash!... Too bad!..."
Striking on one ski, Reed desperately tried to keep his feet but was
catapulted instead, landing head first in a mound of snow and narrowly
missing a rim of spectators. Willing hands reached for him and pulled
him out, shaken and gasping.
"You all right?" asked the official who had waved him down.
"Yes," Reed reassured, recovering his skis.
"Too bad, kid!" sympathized an onlooker. "That first jump of yours
might have been a record if you'd kept your feet."
Reed glanced at once at his landing place. He had come down beyond the
hundred foot mark.
"Well," was his comment, "all I can do is try again!"
"The boy's got nerve!" somebody nearby remarked.
* * * * *
Champion Sam Hartley's first jump gave early evidence of his superb
form when he broke his own record with a leap of one hundred and eleven
feet. He mounted the hill, grinning jubilantly and eyeing the fellow
from down South who was about to take off on his second try, as much as
to say, "Beat that, if you can, you _beginner_!"
"He's good all right," Reed conceded. "This gliding through the air and
keeping your balance without wings of any kind is no small trick. When
you land it's usually harder, too."
Setting himself grimly, Reed leaned forward.
"He's off!" cried the crowd.
Hurtling off the incline, body perfectly poised, the only contestant
from the South carried well over the landing field and came down as
gracefully as a bird. This time there was no wavering, his return to
earth was as beautifully maneuvered as a pilot's three point landing.
There followed a mighty cheer from the crowd!
"Holy smoke!" gasped Sam, staring. "I believe he's ... yes, sir--that
Georgia riddle has topped my mark. The question is--how much?"
A few seconds later the crowd thrilled at the megaphoned announcement
that Reed Markham, number one, had been credited with a jump of one
hundred and thirteen feet, six inches!
"Hey, Sam!" kidded Tom Carrow who was now third with a jump of
ninety-eight feet. "You've got your work cut out for you!"
"Don't I know it?" Seldon's champion returned. "I can't let that baby
beat me. I'd never hear the last of it--after all the razzing I've
handed him."
For the first time since he had come to Seldon Prep, Reed Markham was
supremely happy as, with the plaudits of the crowd resounding in his
ears, he toiled up the ice-coated hill to the starting place. Let this
Sam Hartley person top this mark if he could. Now the ski was
distinctly on the other foot! Sam had broken his own mark and he, Reed,
who had taken up skiing but a month before, had topped that! Pretty
good for a Southern boy who apparently wasn't considered much good at
all!
"Great stuff!" greeted Sam, considerably to Reed's surprise. "That's
the greatest jump I ever saw!"
"Thanks," said Reed, and scowled. "What else can Hartley say?" he asked
himself, trying to explain the champion's gesture of sportsmanship.
"But I'll bet those Northerners are really burning up!"
Trying desperately, the defending champion failed to equal even his
previous distance on the next two jumps. Reed, meanwhile, reserving his
right as the leading jumper, did not take his turns. And, when each of
the other rivals failed in their third tries to better the mark, Reed
felt his nerves tingling as the fellow he detested strapped on his skis
for his last attempt.
"He can't beat it!" something told Reed. "I'm going to win! I'm just a
novice ... a rank amateur ... but I'm going to beat this cocksure
Northerner. They will laugh at a Southerner, will they? This'll fix
'em, and maybe I won't have something to write Dad!"
Reed was still exultant as a breathless crowd, pulling for the local
favorite to come through, cheered mightily with Sam Hartley's
all-important take-off. Reed followed Sam's form as it swept
majestically off the incline and sailed outward over the clearing. His
eyes strained with sudden concern as he noted that Sam had made a
prodigious leap and was coming down close to his own record distance.
Sam struck the slope, wavered, thrashed his arms violently to keep his
feet, succeeded and continued on down over the bridge amid a mad tumult.
"He did it! He topped that Markham fellow's distance!" shouted a
spectator. "What ski jumping! Records being broken right and left!"
Reed felt nervous perspiration ooze out upon him. Now he had it all to
do over again. This was hair-raising, blood-chilling competition.
Reduced now, just to the two of them, it would be a bitter fight to the
finish ... a battle with no quarter asked and no quarter given ...
between North and South.
A tickled Sam Hartley, accepting congratulatory pats on the back,
stationed himself below to await his Southern rival's next jump. He
waved his defiance at the figure on top of the hill. Reed Markham would
have to surpass one hundred and fifteen feet to take the lead from the
champ.
"I guess that finishes him!" Sam said in a low tone to overjoyed
schoolmates. "But, boy--he's made me do some tall jumping!"
* * * * *
Racing down the slide, determined to best his previous jumps, Reed
fairly shot out into space.
"Good night!" exclaimed Sam, face sobering. "That guy's a regular
kangaroo!... Hey! Look out, kid!... Look out the way!"
It happened quickly--a couple of playful kids chasing each other across
the snow and one of them directly in the path of the descending ski
jumper. Reed, looking down, saw that his landing was to be fraught with
peril for himself as well as the youngster. There was only one thing to
do. With complete disregard for himself he twisted his body in air,
hurled himself forward and, just clearing the startled kid, struck the
ground on the tips of his skis, upended and rolled and slid for some
feet, finally colliding with a tree, where he lay, stunned. Even so,
the point of his landing was in excess of the distance Sam had made,
indicating that, had he been able to come to earth without incident,
Sam's record might once more have been eclipsed.
"How are you, fellow?" asked Sam, the first one to him, sitting the
dazed Reed Markham up and looking him over, anxiously.
"I--I'm all right, I guess. I--I missed the kid, didn't I?"
"Yeah, that scamp's okay," Sam reassured. "That was a nervy thing you
just did. Too bad it had to spoil your jump. You're too shaken up. We'd
better call this a day. I'm awfully sorry--really!"
Sam helped Reed to his feet. Director Turner came hurrying up; the
crowd commenced gathering around.
"Give me just a minute," Reed pleaded. "I've got two more jumps coming.
I...!"
"_Two_ more?" exclaimed Sam. "You've got _three_. We're not counting
that one."
"Thanks," said Reed, and gave the fellow he detested a questioning
glance. These Northerners were more chivalrous than he had thought.
"You've jumped enough," declared Coach Turner, taking Reed's arm.
"You've done wonders as it is...."
"No!" insisted Reed, his soft eyes taking on a look of grim
determination. "Whenever a fellow crashes, he's got to go up and
take-off again. That's an old glider rule. I'm all right. Make way for
me, will you please?"
"Well, I'll be dogged!" cried Sam, in sheer admiration, as the fellow
he had pestered brought an ovation from the crowd by starting the long
climb up the hill.
"A Markham never quits!" Reed was repeating to himself as he went
toward the top.
And he was repeating it after he had failed in two more jumps, the
first of which resulted in another tumble and the second falling short
by half a foot.
"You've still another jump if you feel like it!" Sam offered.
"No," said Reed, extending his hand in token of surrender. "You win!"
"I'll never feel quite right about this," said Sam, as he gripped the
hand of the fellow he had dubbed "Softy." "You're some guy, Reed! You
made me break my own record twice to top you. I'm sorry it's taken us
fellows so long to get to know you ... but I'm glad of one thing...!"
He paused, grinning.
"What's that?" asked Reed, feeling his heart suddenly go out to this
Northern foeman.
"I'm glad," said Sam, "that you didn't have snow in Georgia! Man--a guy
who can jump like you did in a month's time...!"
Coldness--imaginary and otherwise--vanished quickly after that as
fellow schoolmates gathered around for the privilege of shaking the
Southerner by the hand ... and, as if to prove that the Northern warmth
was to remain--the next day brought a heavy thaw!