He lifted himself still higher, ready to drop down and play the game of “’possum” for all it was worth if the pig showed signs of life and pugnacity. Still, the pig did not move. Hans rolled over, and slowly got on his hands and knees, then lifted himself to a standing position, ready to run if the pig so much as moved. “It maype is sdill voolin’ me, alretty yet!” he gurgled. “Dere vos no tepending on me somedimes. I haf heert apout dose vilt peasts dot blay sleeby to vool demselves like dot!” But the pig was dead. There could be no doubt of it, and if Hans had not been insane from fright, he must have discovered the fact sooner. He had struck with all his weight, and that was not small, in the middle of the pig’s curved spine, and had snapped it as if it were a pipestem. “Whoop!” he yelled, as soon as he was sure the pig was dead. “Dot vos a recklar knock-oud, you pet me! He vos kilt me der virst lick!” Then, to make sure that the pig could not by any possibility come back to life to frighten him again, he picked up an enormous club, and proceeded to belabor it to such an extent that if there had been any life remaining in the pig’s body, it would have been beaten out. Having done this, Hans walked around his fallen foe with the victorious air of a conquering hero, uttering exclamations of delight, and figuratively patting himself on the back for his valor. “Who vos a cowart?” he demanded, squaring his shoulders and striking out at imaginary foes. “I vould bunch mine heat uf you sait nottings like dot, Hans Dunnerwust, you vos der pinking uf vighting mans dis moindain on, und don’d let dot vorget me! I pet him you vos der beacherino uf der Lilywhites!” Then, still strutting like a peacock, he threw the dead pig over his shoulders, picked up his alpinstock, and marched along the path like a high-stepping horse. From the top of the bluff, where his friends had found their way seemingly blocked, he heard voices calling to him—the voices of Harry Rattleton and Jack Diamond, who had turned back to search for him. Hans answered, with a squeak of delight. “See dot!” he cried, taking the pig from his shoulders and holding it above his head. “Dot vos a vilt hock vot kilt me ven I dried to ead him ub! I vos a fighder, I tolt you, ven I ged him starded!” It was with the utmost difficulty that Ward Hammond concealed his intense chagrin and bitter hate when he arrived with his companions at the goal of the mountain-climbing race and found that Frank Merriwell’s party had beaten them by more than thirty minutes. “It’s all right,” he said, with a sickly smile. “Though I do think you fellows must have had wings hidden about you to get here so soon. But wings weren’t barred. Of course, we wanted to win, but we didn’t, and that’s all there is to it.”