"I know," he heard, "but it's so blasted cold. We don't want him to freeze on our hands."
"He won't. Morton lugged an oil stove out there yesterday. We can get some blankets at the livery."
Norse felt all hot, yet he shivered.
"Say."
He held his breath.
"What?"
He gripped the edge of the table.
"Do you think the place is really haunted?"
Could Norse, that instant, have given way to the rare delight that overcame him, he would have flung his skates through the great plate-glass window of the store in a very riot of joy. His eyes became all alight. He drew away noiselessly.
As he slipped out of the store he was observed neither by the interested clerk nor by the two stocky young men to whose conversation he had listened with such rapt attention, and who, that instant, stepped from behind the counter into the aisle. Before they reached the door he was speeding up State Street, past Tut's, past the Congregational Church, past the First Ward School, past Newberry Hall, thoughtless of the icy pavement, and, apparently, of the fact that a slip might mean the failure of the plan he outlined as he ran.