“But I’ve got my wheel here,” protested Frank.
“Let somebody else ride it in,” returned Mr. Curtis. “After such a dousing there’s no use taking chances.” He paused a moment, his eyes fixed quizzically on the boy’s face. “You can’t swim, can you, Frank?” he went on presently.
“Oh, yes, sir!” the boy said hastily.
A faint smile curved the man’s lips. “How much?” he asked quietly. “About six strokes?”
Sanson flushed, and a guilty grin overspread his face. “Make it eight, sir,” he chuckled. “A fellow can’t seem to fool you at all.”
“And yet you went in after–”
“But I didn’t!” interrupted Frank, earnestly. “I was reaching out with my hockey-stick, and the ice broke and dropped me in. I didn’t mean to at all.”
“Broke without any warning, I suppose,” murmured Mr. Curtis. “You couldn’t possibly have escaped–even by letting go your stick.”
The boy’s flush deepened, and he wriggled uncomfortably. “I–I–” he stammered, and then was silent.
The scoutmaster gave a low, contented laugh, and something in his glance sent an odd thrill through Sanson. He didn’t analyze it. He only knew that all at once he had ceased to feel embarrassed and was happy and comfortable, and back of it all not a little proud of the thing which had won his scoutmaster’s commendation.