CHAPTER XI

THE MYSTERIOUS SKATER

The skating carnival received faculty indorsement in an odd way. Paddy entered Academy Building one morning to find Professor Wheeler in front of the bulletin board, on which the entry list for the races was posted.

“Good morning, Breen,” said the principal. “I see that you are going to have a skating carnival.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Paddy.

“I used to skate once, Breen; I wonder now if I’ve forgotten how? I believe I’d like to try it, anyway. Couldn’t you add a faculty race, Breen? I’d enter--that is--” He paused doubtfully. “That is, you know, if I can find another member of the faculty to race with. And I think I can; yes, I’m certain of it,” he added smilingly. “Add the faculty race, Breen, and I’ll promise you two contestants at least.”

“We’ll do it, sir,” answered Paddy eagerly.

“Very well; come to the office to-morrow and I’ll give you my fee.” And the principal went off smiling broadly, and Paddy flew to report the wonderful news to Wallace and the other members of the committee. The next day Professor Wheeler paid his entrance fee, and a second fee, which he explained was for another member of the faculty who had consented to race.

“And who is he, sir?” asked Paddy.

“Ah! that is a secret at present, Breen. But there is his fee, and you may enter him as X----, an unknown quantity. And he’ll be on hand next Wednesday. By the way, what distance is this faculty race to be?”

“We thought a half mile would suit,” answered Paddy.

“A half mile? Tut, tut, my boy, we’re not so old and disabled as that. Change it to a mile, Breen, if you please.”

There was a deal of speculation throughout the school as to the identity of the second faculty member. It might be Tomkins, who was big and strong enough to win a race on skates; or it might be Beck--most of the boys thought it was--for he could skate well and frequently did. Or--well, it might be any one of the thirteen instructors, barring “Turkey,” of course, who was too old to skate and might blow to pieces in a stiff breeze. The day of the racing carnival was awaited impatiently.

Wayne meanwhile practiced almost every day on the lake or the river, preferring the former because less frequented. Often Dave and Don accompanied him, and the three took turns at holding Don’s stop-watch while the others raced together over the mile or half-mile course. The afternoon preceding the carnival was almost dark when the boys took off their skates at the river’s edge and started up the steep bank below the campus and a long half mile from the Academy. They were going to cut across the fields to the village and leave their skates to be reground for the morrow’s contests. But halfway up the ascent Dave paused and drew the others’ attention to a figure across the river. Wayne and Don stopped and followed the direction of Dave’s arm. Under the shadow of a clump of trees across the bare sweep of purple ice they could just make out the form of a person skating slowly, and, as it appeared, stealthily up the river, holding as close as possible to the gloom afforded by the fringe of bushes.

“Who is it, I wonder?” said Don.

“Probably one of the fellows who has been practicing down stream in the hope of surprising us to-morrow?” suggested Dave. But Wayne shook his head.

“It isn’t a boy, it’s a man; and he’s got a long muffler around his neck. See, he’s stopped!”

“Where is he?” asked Dave. “I can’t see him now.”

“Look straight across to the thickest clump of bushes. He’s in the dark there, and I believe he’s watching us. Looks as though he didn’t want to be seen, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.--I say, fellows, let’s go over and have a look at him. What do you say?”

Don’s suggestion was greeted with enthusiasm, and the boys tumbled down the bank again and proceeded to don their skates. The twilight had deepened now, the river had become a broad path of gray between its darker shores, and the figure beneath the trees was lost to sight.

“Is he still there, do you think?” asked Dave, as he struggled with his clamps.

“Yes,” said Wayne, “I’ve watched. If he goes on he’ll come against that light space of sky there and we can see him.”

Dave’s runners were fastened first and he started across the ice, whispering to Don to hurry after, and in a moment was part of the gloom. Don followed the next instant, and Wayne, still working with his obdurate straps, was left alone. Then came a whistle and the sound of ringing blades on the frozen surface. He slipped the last buckle into place and followed up the river in pursuit of the skaters. Once he heard a shout, but he could see nothing save the high bank beside him, and, far up the ice, the twinkling lights of the school buildings. Once he came a cropper over a protruding spit of graveled beach, but picked himself up and was soon on his way again.

Suddenly the sound of skates ahead of him, and drawing nearer, brought him to a pause.

“That you, Dave?” he shouted. “That you, Don?”

There was no reply; but a figure, black and formless, shot out of the gloom ahead, swung about with a short sweep of grinding runners almost under his nose, and again disappeared in the direction from which it had come. Wayne gave a cry and started in pursuit. It was like playing blindman’s bluff. Sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of a darker spot in the blackness ahead, but was not certain. His own skates drowned the noise of those ahead. But the twinkling lights grew nearer and nearer, and he gave a long shout of warning to Dave and Don, who must, he thought, be waiting for him ahead. An answering shout from far off sounded, and Wayne slid for a moment and strained his ears for the sound of skates. He heard it, but judged that the unknown had gained on him, and he strained every muscle to overtake him. As near as he could tell he was now at a point almost in the middle of the river and about opposite the boat house. The next moment he swept toward the latter, for above the noise of his own skating he had detected the sound of clumsy steps on the boat-house landing. And then, while he believed himself still well out from the shore, his ankles encountered the edge of the landing and he pitched, headforemost, halfway across it, and sat up just in time to hear a chuckle in the darkness and the sound of footfalls on the steps leading up the cliff to the path above. With an exclamation of anger Wayne got up, stumbled across the planks, and tried to climb the stairs. But his skates were sadly in the way, and he soon gave up the effort and felt his way back to the edge of the landing, where he sat and rubbed his bruised shins and shouted for the others. Don arrived first, breathless and excited.

“I almost had him!” he panted, “but he doubled just off the point and he’s gone back down the river. Where’s Dave?”

The two shouted loudly, and an answering hail came from near at hand. The next instant Dave felt his way cautiously up and fell into Wayne’s lap.

“Did you see anything of him?” he gasped. Don repeated what he had told Wayne.

“Where did you say he turned? At the point under Academy Building?”

“Yes,” said Don.

“Why, you idiot, that was me!” Wayne laughed and Don returned, a trifle crossly:

“Well, why didn’t you sing out, then?”

“Because I didn’t suppose you were chasing me. I thought you were just following. I never caught sight of the fellow after he darted out of the bushes and struck up the river. He was gone in a second.”

“Well, you won’t catch him,” said Wayne. “He’s got home by this time.” And he recounted his adventures. Dave whistled.

“He was a bully skater, anyhow. I’ll bet it was Paddy!”

“Nonsense!” answered Don. “He wasn’t built like Paddy.”

“No, he wasn’t one of the fellows,” Wayne said. “He was a man, not very tall, and he had a muffler wound round his neck. And--and the funny thing about it is, that it seems as though I had seen him before somewhere.”

“Well, let’s get these silly skates off and hurry up about it,” said Don disgustedly. “It must be getting late, and I don’t want to have to feed on crackers and sardines the way I had to the other night. And we must get permission to take the skates to the village after supper.”

“Anyhow,” said Wayne, as he tugged at his straps, “I’m sure of one thing; and that is, if I see that fellow to-morrow I’ll recognize him.”

“Same here,” responded Dave.

Wayne found a note from Carl Gray, together with Don’s remodeled golf balls, on his table when he returned to his room after supper. Don examined the balls with interest.

“Pretty good work, I call it, Wayne. They look about as good as new and have a dandy coat of paint on ’em.”

Wayne read the note. “Friend Gordon,” it ran, “here are those balls of Cunningham’s. Some of them are not done very well. They were the first I tried, and didn’t mold so well as I’d like to have had them. I wish you’d not let him pay for them, because they’re not very good and you’ve helped me a lot.” (“Of course I’ll pay for them,” interrupted Don.) “I’ve remolded over forty balls so far, and have nearly twice that many to do yet. I thought you’d like to know how I was getting on. I sent some money home to-day and am going to pay you Saturday. I fixed Greene’s cleek, and I think it as good as new; and I have three more clubs to mend. If business keeps on increasing I’ll have to open a shop, I guess. Couldn’t find you, so write this instead. Yours, Gray. P. S.--_Thank you._”

The last sentence was much underscored, and Wayne grinned as he threw the note aside.

“Decent chap, that Gray,” he said.

“I can’t say as to that,” answered Don, “but I do know that he’s a good hand at remodeling golf balls.”