From its rocky elevation the log-cabin overlooked the active scene, smoke rising from its hospitable chimney and the red glow of a blazing fire gleaming in the windows and winking through the often opened door. Here congregated those who were too indifferent or unskilful to indulge in hockey, while every now and then a player would dash in to thaw out. On Fridays there was pretty sure to be a crowd spending the night there, and then the odor of crisping bacon or broiling chops mingled with the fragrance of the pines; the laughter and joshing kept up throughout the evening, and from the gray farmhouse across the lake an old man, glimpsing the cheery yellow gleam, would chuckle to himself and rub his knotted hands softly together.
“Them boys are havin’ a good time ag’in to-night,” he would murmur. “Reckon I’ll hev’ to step over an’ see ’em in the mornin’.”
Whenever he appeared he was sure of a hearty welcome, for underneath that crustiness, caused by years of loneliness and narrow living, the scouts had found a spirit as young and simple and likable, almost, as a boy’s. And the old man, reveling in this novel, pleasant intercourse, felt sometimes as if he were beginning life all over again.
In this wise the winter passed with its usual mingling of work and play. Coasting, hockey, snow hikes, and the like mixed healthfully with regular lessons, the bird-feeding, studying up for merit badges or first- or second-class tests, and other scout duties and activities. The skating, particularly, was unusually prolonged, and the first signs of March thaws met with general regret.
“Well, we can have one more good game, anyhow,” remarked Frank Sanson, as they came out of school at noon. “Maybe it will be a little soft, but it will bear all right. Who’s going out?”
There were a number of affirmative replies, though the general opinion seemed to be that the ice would be too sloppy to have much fun.
“I’m going to try it, anyhow,” Frank declared, as he got on his wheel. “See you fellows out there.”
“Don’t take any chances before we come,” Sherman Ward called after him. “Remember you can’t swim.”
Sanson sniffed and shouted back a hasty denial of the charge. Nevertheless, as he rode home for dinner he was glad the time was coming when no one would be able even to hint at his deficiencies in that line. When it came to taking care of themselves in the water the boys of Hillsgrove had been more or less handicapped in the past, and like a number of others, Frank could swim only a few strokes. This spring, however, with the lake at his disposal, he meant to devote every spare minute to gaining proficiency in the art, so that when the time came for their summer camp he need ask no odds from anybody.
He finished dinner early and, with skates and hockey-stick, rode briskly out to the lake. He expected to be the first one there, but on the wood-road he noticed the fresh tracks of another bicycle, and, reaching the cabin, he found Paul Trexler standing before the fireplace, in which a lively blaze was going.