“Enough,” he muttered, “to buy twenty ice pool chances. This year I’m going to win! Each year I’ve come nearer; each year the pool has been larger, but this year I win!”
“Don’t be too sure,” Atridge, his partner, observed.
Leach stretched himself and stepped outside. The air was almost balmy; the sky a deep blue; the mountains stood out sharp and clear. The sap was running in the willows, but then a willow is a foolish sort of tree and frequently buds too soon. The creek on which their cabin was located was frozen down to its gravel bottom. Leach looked into the sky and a peculiar hardness grew in the muscles around his jaw. A flock of geese was flying northward to some open body of salt water. A willow may be foolish, but geese know.
“This year,” he repeated, “I win the ice pool!”
Atridge did not speak for several seconds.
“I think,” he finally said, “I get you. But don’t you mean this year we win the ice pool?”
“Yes, if you want to go in on it—fifty-fifty. Otherwise I’m counting on you to keep your mouth shut!”
“I’m with you; what’s your plan?”
“We can’t lose. I’ve worked it all out. Last winter when you thought I was brooding and maybe had cabin fever I was figuring to win the pool!”
“What’s your plan?” Atridge repeated.