"And the medals on his sweater. Gee, don't you wish you were him?"
A voice broke in on them.
"Scatter there, scatter." The policeman forced his way to the center. "You're blocking the way to the skating house. Keep moving!"
In obedience to the majesty of the law, the boys skated off and found a secluded, smooth bit of ice nearer shore. There, John tried to cut a shaky "J" on the ice and fell over backwards. Shortly afterward, Silvey met with a similar fate, and the boys looked at each other despondently. Both pairs of ankles were aching badly from the unaccustomed exercise, but neither wanted to admit it. Silvey loosened one of his skate straps.
"Got your watch, John?"
It showed a quarter past nine. "Our mothers'll be waiting for us," he said. Thus a way to honorable retreat was found.
They stamped stiffly back to the warming house and took off their skates. John held his numbed fingers as near to the glowing coal stove in the center of the room as he dared, while Bill studied the age-stained menu over the lunch counter.
"My treat," he said, as he drew a bright half-dollar from his pocket. "What'll you have?"
John ordered his favorite, mince pie; his host, a cut of half-baked apple. They washed the food down with a glass of cider apiece, and stumbled out on the board walk toward home.
"Feel's funny, walking after you've had skates on," John commented as they trudged along the dark path. Silvey spoke up, "Say, John."