CHAPTER XVIII.

JACK USES A FILE.

“Oh, the sea wot flows; _And_ the ship wot goes, _And_ the lad wot fears no dan-ger; _And_ the pleasant gale, _And_ the swelling sail, _And_ the lass wot loves a sail-or-r-r-!”

“Ahoy there, lad!” exclaimed the singer, bluff old Captain Hudgins, “bringing up all standing,” as he would have expressed it, in front of Rob Blake’s home on the morning of the Bob-sled Carnival.

“What time are them sliding craft due to slip their moorings on Jones’s Hill?”

“Why, hullo, cap,” exclaimed Rob, hastening down the snowy path to meet his old friend from Topsail Island. “I thought I knew that song. The races start this afternoon, but owing to the number of entries the committee has decided to continue them to-night.”

“Ter-night!” exclaimed the ancient mariner, “you’re a-goin’ ter come sky-hootin’ down that hill in the black night, boy? Stand by.”

“Not in the black night, exactly,” laughed Rob, amused at the old man’s bewilderment; “you see, this was decided on some days ago, and they’ve got incandescents rigged up on both sides of the course. It’s going to be a pretty sight, and there’ll be a big crowd out to see it.”

“Reckon I’ll have to stay over then,” snorted the captain. “When I was a boy we thought bob-sledding was good enough, without havin’ races atween port and starboard craft, with patent steerers, and more opportunities to break your neck than you can shake a stick at.”

“Oh, it’s not as bad as that,” Rob assured him. “It’s safe enough if the fellows are careful, and they all are, and besides that, they all know how to handle a big sled, and that’s a whole lot.”

“Reckon so,” agreed the captain. “Wal, I’ve got to trim my sails and get afore the wind. I’m setting my course for the post office.”

“I’m going that way, too,” said Rob; “I’ll walk with you.”

Together they set off up the street, which was filled with men and boys, all discussing the forthcoming bob-sled races. The regular population of Hampton was already augmented by rooters from other towns, and the afternoon trains would bring in more. In front of the post office Rob met Tubby Hopkins, Merritt Crawford, Paul Perkins and Hiram Nelson. They were to form the team of the “Eagle,” as the Boy Scout’s sled had been named.

Several other boys had their tobogganing sleds in front of the post office, which appeared to be quite a gathering place for the prospective contestants. Among them were Jack Curtiss and his team. The former bully of the Hampton Academy sneered as the boys came up, but made no other sign of hostility.

The “Eagle” was painted a bright red with gilt trimmings, and looked very handsome. Several in the crowd were making admiring comments on her as Rob approached. Jack Curtiss’ sled, too, came in for a lot of attention. It fairly glistened with paint and varnish, and being a store-made affair was naturally better finished off than the Boy Scouts’ craft.

“Curtiss and his bunch will win the cup, hands down,” a man was saying, as the Boy Scouts moved off on their way to the hill, where already several boys were practicing.

“Not much doubt of it,” was the response; “they’ve sure got a fine sled there.”

“Say, young feller, want to bet on yer team?” cried the first speaker after Rob.

“I don’t bet, thank you,” was the response; “but we’ve got as good a chance of winning as the next fellow.”

“Well, wouldn’t that jar you?” muttered the man, as the crowd broke into a laugh at Rob’s retort.

“You want to bet all your money on us,” said Freeman Hunt, and he and his cronies prepared to follow Rob and his chums.

“How’s that?” asked the man.

“Because we’re going to win. There’s no doubt of it,” was the rejoinder.

“Well, you seem mighty positive about it,” commented the man.

Workmen were busy on either side of the hill stringing up electric lights, as the boys arrived. Between the rows of tall poles crowds of lads were scooting down the hill on their sleds, or laboriously hauling them up again. It was an animated scene, and there were plenty of lookers-on as the racing sleds glided swiftly over the smooth surface. It had been watered and packed till it was as hard and smooth as a sheet of glass. It glistened in the winter sun like polished steel.

“Wow! Won’t we whiz over that!” exclaimed Merritt, as they hastened to ascend the hill by a path left at one side of the course. Arrived at the top, an examination of the runners of the sled followed. They were found to be as smooth as a mirror, which is an important thing, for the slightest roughness will check a sled’s speed more than would be thought possible.

“That’s one reason I think we may have a chance over Curtiss and his bunch,” explained Rob, as they took their seats for a trial trip.

“How’s that?” inquired Tubby, who, on account of his weight, sat in the middle.

“Why, their runners have hardly had time to wear smooth yet,” went on Rob. “You know it takes a long time to get them into good shape. We wore ours down last year, before we lightened the sled and widened it.”

“Ready!” shouted Merritt, from his seat in front.

“Right!” came the reply.

The next instant they were off. How that sled flew down the smooth hill! The frosty air whipped tinglingly back against their happy faces. The runners screamed as they rushed over the hard snow. Small boys cheered as they shot by. Everybody knew that the “Eagle” was one of the favorites in the big event—the race for the silver cup.

“She’s fast,” grudgingly admitted Jack Curtiss, as the red sled flew by him on its way down the hill.

“But we can clip a nailparing of a second off her,” rejoined Freeman Hunt, boastfully.

“Think so?” inquired Lem Lonsdale.

“Oh, sure,” chimed in Bill Bender, confidently.

Both Bill and Jack had been betting pretty freely on their success, and both felt certain that they would win. But a momentary look of anxiety had crossed their faces as Rob and his chums flew by. There was no denying that their pace was tremendous. The Aquebogue team, which had arrived on an early train, followed the “Eagle” down the hill, but did not seem to make such good time. Still, it was possible that, as defenders of the cup, they were not showing all they could do.

“We can beat them with a ton of hay tied on behind,” sneered Jack Curtiss, as he watched the Aquebogue Wolves make their practice trips. His words seemed justified by the speed their own sled made. Like a varnished streak, she shot down the hill again and again, each time wearing her runners smoother and making better time.

And so the morning wore away. The afternoon was devoted to the small races, Ernest Thompson and Joe Digby, of the Eagles, winning two prizes to their great delight. Some of the Hawk boys, too, captured events. But the feature of the afternoon was Paul Perkins’s winged sled, which cavorted and flopped about to the huge delight of the crowd, and to the terror of the lad’s mother, who was among the onlookers. At four o’clock the minor events were all over and there only remained the silver cup to be contested for.

The Aquebogue Wolves, all strapping youths, considerably older than the Hampton boys, strode about the town confidently during the evening, although the talk of the Hamptonites must have disturbed them a little. The teams from the other contesting towns also talked big, but that seemed to be more to keep up appearances than anything else.

“Gee, the time seems as if it would never pass,” said Tubby, as after supper the lads hastened back to the hill. The electric lights were glowing now, casting a yellow radiance over the snow. Few people were on hand as yet, however, as the race was not to start till eight o’clock.

The few that were on hand were warmly muffled up in furs and heavy overcoats. Of course, there were plenty of small boys about, playing all manner of tricks on one another to keep warm, and hurling snowballs at persons they deemed good-natured enough not to resent it—and at others, too. What boy doesn’t enjoy “a chase”?

The sleds which were to take part in the race were lined up in readiness near the starting point. While the crews had been at supper various persons had been left in charge of the sleds. Rob and his chums had found a youth, who was quite a character in the village, to take care of theirs. This lad’s name was Sim Bimm.

Whether it was caused by his name—which rhymed, or by natural gift that way, nobody knew, but Sim Bimm had difficulty in saying anything in prose. On the contrary, rhyming marked his conversation. He was reputed to be half-witted, but in some things he was shrewd enough. For lack of a better guardian the boys had singled Sim Bimm out.

“Now, Sim,” Rob had said impressively, “there’s a dollar coming to you if you watch our sled carefully. Don’t let anyone come near it or touch it in any way. Do you understand?”

“Right and true, I’ll watch for you,” responded Sim, giving vent to his peculiar mode of expression.

“No matter what excuse they give don’t let them lay hands on the sled, Sim,” added Merritt.

“Not a foot nor a hand, be they ever so grand,” Sim assured the boys, proudly.

“All right, Sim,” said Tubby, as they moved off; “we trust you, remember.”

“You’re right Sim to trust; I’ll watch till I bust,” rejoined the rhyming youth.

Hardly had the lads vanished down the hill, however, before Sim, who in order to watch more closely, was seated right upon the sleigh, saw two figures approaching him.

“Here comes William Bender, and Jack Curtiss so slender,” improvised Sim as they drew closer.

“Hello, Sim,” exclaimed Jack, with great appearance of cordiality, “what are you doing?”

“Watching this sled, with heart and head,” was the response.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Jack, “at your rhyming again, eh, Sam? Want to earn a little money?”

“Don’t care for money; now isn’t that funny?” firmly replied Sim, taking a grip on the sled with both hands.

“But you like candy, don’t you?” asked Jack.

“Gee! Mo-lasses candy; wish I had some handy,” wavered Sim, his mouth beginning to water.

“Well, if you’ll go a little errand for me I’ll give you fifty cents to buy some with,” Jack promised, taking out a fifty-cent piece and extending it temptingly. “We’ll watch the sled while you’re gone.”

“I oughtn’t to go; that’s one thing I know,” said Sim; but there was a sort of undecided quaver in his voice.

“You’ve got him,” whispered Bill. Jack nodded.

“It isn’t very far,” the enemy of the Boy Scouts went on. “It’s just to get my gloves. I dropped them at the foot of the hill. You can be there and back in ten minutes.”

“I’ll go like the wind, be back quickly, you’ll find,” promised Sim, rising to his feet. The thought of molasses candy had proven too much for him.

“Very well, then; be off. We’ll wait for you here to take care of the sled.”

“With a dollar and a half, I’ll sing and I’ll laugh,” chuckled Sim to himself as he dashed off, going as fast as his long legs would carry him.

“Now, then,” exclaimed Jack as he vanished. Reaching into his pocket he drew out a file, and while Bill Bender raised the Boy Scouts’ sled he rapidly filed the runners till they were as rough as newly-molded metal.

“Guess that will fix them,” he said, as Sim came panting back to announce that he could find no gloves. But as both Jack and Bill Bender had known all along that there were no gloves there, this information didn’t seem to interest them as much as Sim had expected when he exclaimed:

“I looked low and high, but no gloves could I spy.”