Ned ought to have supported it by a strap; but he claimed that only girls and molly-coddles wore straps.
Aiming straight for the village spire the three dashed on as though they were dispatch bearers. “Clink, clink, clink,” and the yellow dunes of the shore danced past, and Newton steadily drew nearer.
A last glorious burst of speed, to prove how fresh they were, and up to the Newton levee, fringed with skaters, they dashed. Panting, running perspiration, with a flourish and a scrape they halted.
“There!” they congratulated themselves, all together.
Thus they might go back home, and boast that they had come those miles without a stop—for although Tom had caught his toe in a crack and had pitched headlong, even while sliding the fastest he had regained his feet and continued his way.
They took off their skates, and went up town. As they climbed the levee their feet felt very flat and awkward, as is only natural when one has changed from flying to walking. Ned’s ankle pained him like sixty, but he minded it not.
There was not much to see in Newton. It had only the single business street. However, they sauntered here and there for an hour, feeling like distinguished visitors.
“Let’s eat,” at length spoke Ned.
His proposal was instantly adopted. They recalled a sign which stated “Oysters in All Styles”; and presently they had clumped into a little back room, and seated about a small round table were waiting impatiently for “three stews.”