Part 5

"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!

IN WRONG RIGHT

They picked me to do the dirty work because I was a special friend of Eddie Summers and they didn't think he'd suspect me.

Eddie was the leader of the freshest bunch of Freshies that ever got fresh at Lillard High. He'd made things miserable for us Sophs all year and the worst thing about it, he'd slipped out of every trap we'd set for him. The other Freshies didn't cut so much bait with us. Eddie was the rudder to the Freshman ship ... and once we put the rudder out of commission we knew the first year boat would flounder like a fish trying to make a cross country hike.

Pete Dean, leader of our forces, had prided himself on being a commander-in-chief second only to General Pershing and a few other notables not worth mentioning. To have an insignificant mortal, wearing the green skull cap insignia of the Freshman ranks, consistently outwit and thwart his best laid plans for keeping the first year fellows in their places, was only to add fuel to the day when the Sophs should drive through to a high and mighty revenge.

"He can't get away with it every time," Pete insisted, the morning after we saw the Freshman colors of green and white rippling in the breeze from the reed-like flag-staff on top of the Lillard High belfry.

"But who's going up and get those colors down?" I asked, not caring to volunteer for reasons plainly obvious!

"If anyone'll tell me how that human fly climbed up there and tied those colors to the top of that flag pole without breaking his neck and dislocating both ears ... I'll get it down!" exploded Pete.

But he knew blamed well that nobody could tell him! And anyhow, when Principal Sawyer spotted those colors he posted a notice on the bulletin board saying that he'd expel anyone who tried to take 'em down.

Obadiah Erasmus Tucker got hot under the collar, too. The idea of any lower classman cutting such capers! As president of the Student Government League he felt called upon to declare himself against all stunts and hazing. Obadiah was a Senior now and he'd never gotten over the humiliation of having to wear a green cap his Freshman year.

I wish you could have seen Obadiah. He was the personification of dignity plus. No wonder they elected him president of the United Classes of Lillard. He never did anything improper. He was a polished example of law and order. And how he loved to enforce regulations! Obadiah looked upon "his truly" as the exalted head of a school court for the promotion of inter-class peace. The Seniors held the balance of power in this funny government which Obadiah had helped to form, because the Seniors were supposed to be the most experienced. The other classes were represented according to their place in the scheme of things. Real important decisions had to have the endorsement of the faculty but we got a lot of fun out of thinking that we governed ourselves anyway.

I guess a person has to have dignity to be looked up to ... or else they must be tall. Obadiah was both. He was the tallest fellow in school besides holding his head the highest. Eddie Summers was the only one who could come near him for altitude. Obadiah looked like a piece of pulled taffy. Everything about him was long. He had a long face, a long nose, a long neck, long arms and longer legs. Maybe that's why it was so hard for him to unbend ... lots of longitude but hardly any latitude. His face was so long that he couldn't laugh with it. Nothing ever seemed to strike him funny. I'll bet you couldn't have tickled him if you'd teased the bottoms of his feet with a straw. And if you laughed at anything yourself he acted like you'd violated half the constitution which called for a respectful attitude at all times.

Honest, Obadiah had us thinking he was a Swiss cheese and we didn't amount to anything but the holes. He was very important and superior. I guess now it was because he wore double-lensed, shell-rimmed glasses and his hair always stuck up straight on his head. The glasses used to use his nose as a toboggan slide and he was always taking a long finger and shoving them back up where they belonged. He had just about as much trouble with his pants. Every time he sat down he pulled up about a yard of the legs so's he wouldn't stretch the creases out of the knees.