Beyond him sat his great friend and boon companion in all their athletic games, Bert Walsh, the doctor's son, a lad whose poet's face, with its great, liquid brown eyes, and whose slow, deliberate speech, gave no indication of the force of character that lay below. Like Phil, he was fond of all out-of-door sports, but, unlike him, he was fond of books as well. A strong character, emphatic in its likes and dislikes, Bert's finest trait was his high sense of honor, that was evident in his every act.
On the other side of Bess was the minister's son, Teddy Preston, the oldest of eight children, a frank, healthy, happy boy, good and bad by turns, but irresistible even in his naughtiness. Brought up in a home where books and magazines were always at hand, though knees and toes might be a little shabby, Ted had contrived to pick up a vast amount of information about the world at large; and, added to that, he had the happy faculty of telling all he knew. With an easy assurance he slipped along through life, never embarrassed, and taking occasional well-merited snubs so good-naturedly that his friends might have regretted giving them had they not known only too well that they slid off from his mind like the fabled water from a duck's back. A year younger than Phil, his yellow head towered far above him, and he outgrew his coats and trousers in a manner entirely incompatible with the relative sizes of the family circle to be clothed, and of the paternal salary. But Ted never minded that. He carried off his shabby clothes as easily as Bert did his perfectly fitting suits, and seemed in no way concerned about the difference.
A year older than any of the other lads was Sam Boeminghausen, a short, sturdy boy, a real German, blond, phlegmatic, and good-humored. But his light blue eyes had a look of determination that suggested that the day might come when Sam would be something or somebody. His father had recently made a large fortune in Western cattle-ranching, and, as yet, the family had not entirely adapted themselves to their new surroundings. Sam's grammar was erratic, and his expensive garments had the look of being made for another and a larger boy. But time would change that, and under the careless speech and rough manners Bess could see the possibilities of a glorious manhood.
On the floor at Bessie's feet sat our old friend Rob, poking the fire with the tongs. The light fell on his fine, soft, brown hair, delicate skin, and great, laughing dark eyes. Rob was the descendant of a long line of refined ancestors, a real little gentleman, and he showed it from the perfect nails on his small slim hands, brown as berries though they were, to the easy position in which he now sat, with one foot curled under him. A gentle, shy boy, affectionate and easily managed, he was an inveterate tease, and full of a quiet fun that sparkled in his eyes and laughed in his dimples.
But while we have been gazing at the five lads, all so different from one another, there was a sudden burst of applause as Bess rose, saying,—
"Now, boys, if you are all dry, I am going to invite my company out into the kitchen. What do you say to making molasses candy and popcorn balls? It is just the night for it."
"That's just dandy!" exclaimed Ted, springing up with a force that sent his chair rolling back some inches.
"Ted, if you talk slang I sha'n't give you any to eat," said Bess laughingly. "But come, boys." And she led the way into the large kitchen, where her mother soon followed them with five large gingham aprons in which she proceeded to envelop the lads, in spite of their derisive comments.
"I am not going to have you spoil your clothes, children, for then your mothers will scold us. Now, if I can't help you, Bess, I am going to stay with Fuzz; and I leave you to do your worst."
"Don't go, Mrs. Carter," implored Ted, and the others echoed him; but Mrs. Carter was not to be bribed, even by Phil's noble offer to let her do his share of the work.