Hen Dutcher was a peculiar chap, at any rate. His worst fault, probably—but one that led to other faults—was his egotism. He was always thinking about himself and his own puny little interests. For the life of him, Hen couldn't understand why he wasn't popular with other fellows. He sometimes realized that he wasn't, but charged the fact up to the other fellows being "too stuck on themselves, or on those 'boobs,' Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin."
"Let's run Hen ashore and rub his face in the snow!" proposed one boy gleefully.
"You dassent!" flared up Hen. But half a dozen boys uttered a whoop and skated toward him. Hen wobbled on his skates an instant, then turned, intent on escape.
"Oh, say, fellows," called Dick, "don't be all the time picking on poor old Hen."
"We'll just wash his face," shouted back one of the pursuers.
Hen knew they meant it, and he was traveling down the ice, now, under full steam.
"Come on, fellows," called Dick, to Greg and to Tom Reade. "We don't want to see Hen abused."
"Why does he get so fresh, then?" demanded Greg, but he started, as did Tom. Dick & Co. were all fleet skaters. They surged to the front of the pursuers, who took it for granted that Dick and his friends were going to aid them, and therefore set up a shout of joy.
Hen Dutcher was traveling with so much effort that he panted hard as he skated.
"Get him, Dick!" sang out Ben Alvord, as Prescott shot ahead of the others.