The gong had just struck the signal for dismissal in the third-ward school building, when the busy physician drove up to the curbstone in his sleigh to get his boy. "Max will be down in a minute, Doctor Morris!" called a boy, as he ran past the sleigh with his skates slung over his shoulder. "Miss Clay kept some of 'em to see about celebrating Washington's Birthday."
"Thank you, Ned," answered the doctor. He drew the robes closer about him as he walked the horse up and down, for there was a keen wind blowing this cold February afternoon. Presently a group of boys loitered by and stood on the corner, waiting for the rest of Miss Clay's pupils to join them.
"I'm glad Miss Clay isn't my teacher!" one of them exclaimed, in a loud voice. "Skating's too good now to waste time learning to spout pieces."
"Well, I think it's about time to give George Washington a rest," said the largest boy in the group. "He's a back number, and I'll tell her so, too, if she asks me to say any of her old pieces."
"That's a pretty way to talk about the Father of your Country!" piped up a little fellow in spectacles, who was sliding on the ice in the gutter. "Back number! I just dare you to say that to Miss Clay!"
The doctor overheard this, but he did not hear the quarrel that followed, for Max came running down just then, and climbed into the sleigh.
"You're late to-day, my boy. What's the trouble?"
"Oh, Miss Clay kept us to arrange a programme for Washington's Birthday, and nobody wanted to take part. We're all tired of the same old thing year after year—just songs and recitations and dialogues about the same old fellow!"
"A fine lot of patriots this next generation is going to turn out!" said the doctor, so sternly that Max gave him a quick glance of surprise, and then flushed at his evident disapproval. The grim look crept into the man's eyes that was always there when he was absorbed in a critical case.
"O papa, are we going home?" cried Max, in a disappointed tone, as the horse turned in that direction.