“Sam, I want you to know Mr. Faulkner,” said Pollock. “Faulkner, this is Sam Craig. Sam’s our baseball captain and a gentleman of much wisdom.” The two shook hands, Joe a trifle embarrassedly, Sam Craig with a slight lifting of one corner of his serious mouth and an accompanying lighting of the gray eyes.
“How are you, Faulkner? I’ve seen you around school, I think. Glad to meet you.” The clasp was a very hearty one, almost painfully hearty, and Joe worked his fingers afterwards to see that they were still whole.
“Faulkner,” continued Pollock, completing the lacing of the boot, “is a stranger in our midst, Sam. He’s just come from Akron. He says he hasn’t got acquainted much yet. What’ll we do about it? Our fair city has a world-wide reputation for hospitality, you know, and it mustn’t be marred.”
“I’ve only been here since last Monday,” said Joe. “I guess a fellow can’t expect to make many acquaintances in that time.”
“Going skating?” asked Sam.
“Yes. He says the pond is better than the river.”
“It is. I was there yesterday; the river, I mean. It isn’t safe more than fifty feet from shore. Proctor’s Pond is the best place just now. I’m going down there myself. If you’d like to come along I’ll show you the way.”
“Thanks, yes, I’d be glad to.”
“Do you play hockey?” asked Pollock.
“No. I’ve never tried it.”