“I am not afraid to try against you, Sully, and perhaps it will be you who will lose his pocket-knife.” “Humph!” sneered Sully. “No fear. And if I did, I guess I could buy another easy enough, even if somebody else couldn’t.” This was a direct shot at Harry’s poverty, and made the ears of the poor boy tingle, while his handsome face flushed. “Come on and try your skill and quit your talking,” exclaimed Jack Bascoe, rather sharply, and he faced Sully as he spoke. “There is no use in wasting time here.” Had it been any one else than Jack Bascoe who had spoken thus suggestively to him, Pete Sully might have picked a quarrel then and there. He was a very overbearing boy, and never allowed a chance of whipping some other boy go by him. But the truth of the matter was, that he had once run up against Jack’s fist in a most surprising fashion. Blood had flowed freely, and from that time on the bully of Rudskill knew there were two boys in the town he dare not molest, Jack and his younger brother, Andy. So, muttering something under his breath which Harry and his friends could not hear, Sully and his cohorts began to drag their toboggan up the long hillside. They were followed by the other boys, with the _Buster_. The walk was a tedious one, especially so to the two sides that wished to race each other. “Whom shall we get to add weight?” asked Harry, as they at last gained the starting-place. “I don’t see any of our crowd here; do you?” “I don’t,” returned Jack. “What’s the matter with Pickles Johnsing?” put in Boxy. “He’s got enough weight for two.” Pickles Johnsing was a stout, round-faced colored boy, with big red lips, and teeth which reminded one very forcibly of double-blank dominoes set in twin rows. He was a very willing and decent sort of a young darky, and had many friends in the little river town in which my story for the present is located. “He’ll do first-rate,” said Harry. “Hello, Pickles!” he shouted. “Hullo, dar, Harry!” returned the colored boy. “Got yo’ tobog out ag’in, I see.” “Yes, Pickles, and we want you to ride down with us this trip. Put your bread-shovel out of the way.” “T’anks, Harry, I’se like to ride down on de _Buster_ fust-rate,” grinned Pickles. “Wot yo’ gwine ter do, race Pete Sully?” “Yes, Pickles, and we must beat him,” replied Andy. “You know just how to help us along.” “Humph! if he ain’t going to take that coon on the trip!” sneered Pete Sully. “You ain’t racing niggers, are you, Pete?” questioned one of his followers. “I don’t know as I am,” returned Pete Sully, slowly. He walked over to where Harry sat on his toboggan. “I expected to race white fellows,” he remarked, sourly. “Pickles is all right,” said Jack Bascoe. “He’s the dark horse to win. If you are going to race, get ready, for Harry isn’t going to wait all night for you.” “Where’s that knife!” demanded Sully, thus changing the subject.