did. Away slid the puck to the right, the charging Second Team forward

twirled, recovered as the point missed his check, got the puck again before the coverpoint could reach it and charged straight at goal from the right.

Sam Craig, still apparently calm and unflustered, refused the challenge to go out and meet him. Instead, he closed his padded knees together, held his stick across his body and waited. The Second Team player shot from six feet away, shot hard and straight. There was a _thud_, the puck slammed against Sam’s knee and was gently brushed aside as Sid Morris, skating like a whirlwind, rushed past, hooked it expertly, swung around behind the goal and set off again down the ice. The Second Team forward, who had so nearly scored, was already back in line, quite untroubled by his failure, and Joe identified him as Strobe. Sidney lost the puck a moment later and the whistle shrilled for off-side. Joe watched until the First Team had finally penetrated the adversary’s defence and scored its first goal and then went off up the pond to skate. Since most of the fellows were watching the hockey he had the upper reaches of the ice practically to himself.

Joe was only a fair skater, and now, swinging along and following the curving shore, he found himself envying the ability of those chaps on the hockey teams. It must, he thought, be fine to be able to skate as they did, to feel as much at home on steel runners as on leather, and he wondered if any amount of practice would ever enable him to duplicate their marvellous feats. He wished he could play hockey, too. It looked mighty exciting. Experimentally, he turned and started to skate backward, zigzagging as he had seen the Second Team’s coverpoint do. All went well for a minute, but then he raised his hands to the sky, followed them with his feet and went down on his head and shoulders. He had quite a nice slide, but he wasn’t able to enjoy it much, since he was too busy watching the vari-coloured stars that flashed in front of his closed eyes. When he stopped sliding he felt gingerly of his head, grinned and climbed carefully to his feet again.

“That’s what you get,” he murmured, “for trying to be smart.”

However, when he had got his breath again he was ready for more experiments and tried the inner edge-roll with fair success, and, becoming more ambitious, essayed a figure eight. But that didn’t go very smoothly, and since by that time he had neighbours about him he stopped his capers. One of the neighbours skated toward him, but Joe paid no heed to him until he swung around and came to a stop a few feet away.

“Do it slower and you’ll get it all right,” observed the boy pleasantly. Joe saw then that he was Strobe. He had pulled a faded blue sweater on and still carried his stick. He was a merry-faced fellow, with good features, bright blue eyes and a good deal of colour in his cheeks. He was evidently about sixteen and rather tall for that age. He smiled in friendly fashion as Joe glanced up and stopped so awkwardly that he almost fell into Strobe’s arms.

“It isn’t hard,” the latter continued. “Like this. See?” He described a circle on the outer edge, changed to the inner and completed the figure slowly and gracefully.

“I know very well it isn’t hard,” replied Joe, “but it’s hard for me because I’m a perfectly punk skater.”

Strobe laughed. “Oh, well, practice is all you need. Can you do the ‘Figure 3’?”

“Pretty well. I guess you have to learn to skate when you’re about five years old to do it decently. Like swimming. I never skated much until two years ago.”

“I started when I was about eight, I guess,” laughed Strobe. “Know this one?”

“This one” was a “Maltese Cross” so perfectly done that every loop was the same to an inch. Joe watched and sighed in envious admiration. “That’s dandy,” he said. “It’s like the ‘cross-cut’ only there’s more of it.”

“Yes, the ‘cross-cut’ repeated three times. It isn’t hard, really. You could learn it in an hour.”

“I couldn’t learn it in a month,” replied Joe disgustedly. “I can’t even skate backwards without bumping my head on the ice.”

“Well, I’ve bumped mine often enough. That’s part of the education. I’ve seen some perfectly wonderful stars in my time!” He started to skate and Joe joined him.

“You’re not playing any more?” asked the latter, as the shrill sound of a whistle from around the shoulder of the hill told him that the game was still on.

“No. Sidell’s got my place for this half. There’s a half-dozen of us all trying for a wing position on the Second, and Steve has his hands full giving us each a show.” He chuckled softly. “He forgot in the first half and let me play right through.”

“Hockey must be good fun,” mused Joe, secretly trying to copy his companion’s ease of motion.

“Bully. I wish I could play better and make the First.”

“I thought you did finely when you skated down and tried that shot,” said Joe.

“Mostly luck. Besides, tries don’t count; it’s only goals. And I ought to have got that in that time. It was up to me to skate past and push it in instead of whanging it. You can’t get the puck past Sam Craig that way. I knew it, too, only I thought I’d be smart. Let’s go up and watch them. Mind?”

“No, I’d like to,” replied Joe.

They joined the line of spectators along the side of the supposititious rink, being frequently obliged to flee before the slashing sticks or plunging forms of the players, and witnessed the final decisive triumph of the First Team by a score of seven goals to two. A few of the players remained to practise further, but most of them, accompanied by a full half of their audience, crossed a field to where, a quarter of a mile distant, a blue-sided trolley-car was waiting outside the board fence of the Fair Grounds to start its noon journey townwards. Joe found himself still in the company of Strobe, and was well satisfied, since there was something about the other chap that drew him. They were chatting quite intimately by the time the car was reached, and when they got out at Main Street Strobe lengthened his own journey homeward by several blocks in order to pursue the new acquaintanceship.

Joe found out then and during the next meeting that Jack Strobe――his full name was Jackson――was in Joe’s class at school, that he lived on Temple Street, that he played left field on the nine, that he was two months older than Joe, that his father was the senior partner of Strobe and Wonson, whose big jewelry store Joe had noticed on Main Street, and several other more or less interesting facts. It was only when Joe was in the house that he recollected that he had failed to take leave of Sam Craig. He had meant to thank him for taking him out to the pond, but had been so absorbed in this red-cheeked, blue-eyed Strobe chap that he had quite forgotten Sam’s existence. He hoped the latter wasn’t thinking him uncivil, and resolved to make an apology at the first opportunity. He had agreed to go around in the afternoon and call on Jack Strobe, and at a little after two was being ushered by a maid through the rather ornate front door of the Strobe mansion and into a cosy sitting-room――or perhaps it was a library, since there were two large bookcases flanking the fireplace, in which a soft-coal fire was sputtering greasily. Jack came charging down the stairs and at once haled the visitor up to the third floor, where, on the back of the house, overlooking a wide vista of snowy roofs and distant country, Jack had his own particular sanctum.

It was a big square room lighted by three windows set close together, and at first glance looked like a museum or a curio shop. Almost every inch of wall space was covered with pictures, posters or trophies of some kind, with snowshoes, tennis rackets, foils and mask, Indian moccasins, a couple of small-bore rifles, a battered lacrosse stick depended against them. A long, cushioned seat stood under the windows and was piled with brightly-coloured pillows. The floor was bare save for a few scattered rugs. A brass bed, a chiffonier, an immense study table, two comfortable armchairs and several straight-backed chairs comprised the principal furnishings, but by no means all. Near the windows was a smaller table, holding wireless instruments. A set of bookshelves, evidently home-made――Jack referred to them as being “near-Mission”――held a miscellaneous collection of volumes ranging from “Zig-Zag Journeys” to the latest juvenile thriller, presented last Christmas, and including all sorts of old school-books with worn backs. An old seaman’s chest stood against a wall, the repository for abandoned toys and devices. One end was decorated with the legend, apparently inscribed with a brush dipped in shoe-blacking: “Captain Kidd His Chest! Beware!!” One corner of the room held an assortment of fishing-rods, golf-clubs and hockey-sticks, and another a pair of skiis, two canoe paddles, and a camera tripod. The camera itself stood nearby, neighboured by a jig-saw, and a stereopticon sat beside it. Joe gazed and marvelled.

“You’ve got about everything there is up here, haven’t you?” he exclaimed. “Is that a wireless set? How’s it work? I never saw one near-to.”

The instruments were duly explained, not over-enthusiastically, since Jack had lost interest in wireless telegraphy after a year of devotion, and then Joe made a tour of the room, examining and questioning and enjoying himself hugely. Later various scrap-books and stamp-books were pulled from under the window-seat and looked over, and finally, having still only partly exhausted the wonders, the two boys settled down amongst the cushions and talked. That afternoon sped like magic. Almost before they realised it the room was in twilight and from across town came the hoarse sound of the five o’clock whistle at the carpet mills. Whereupon Joe said he must go, and Jack, remonstrating, led him downstairs, helped him on with his coat, and accompanied him to the steps. There:

“What are you doing tonight?” he asked very carelessly.

“Nothing special,” replied Joe quite as disinterestedly.

There was a pause. Finally:

“I might run in for a minute,” announced Jack. “I’m going downtown anyway and――――”

“Wish you would.”

“Your aunt won’t mind?”

“Of course not. I haven’t much to show you, though. My room’s just a box, you know.”

“That’s all right. We can talk some more. About eight?”

“Before, if you can.”

“Half-past seven?”

“Yes. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t. So long, Faulkner.”

“So long. And thanks for――everything.”

Jack laughed shortly. “I haven’t done anything. See you later.”

“Sure!”