"Norsey," he muttered, with the faintest suggestion of a tremor in his voice, "you're the best old pal a chap ever had...."
"Oh, never mind the bouquets," Norse broke in. "Lemme see; you got all your clothes on? Those shoes are pretty bad for a swell function; but they'll be under the table. Yes, I guess you're all right. Take these skates and clamp 'em while I pack your other clothes in the satchel. Lucky you told me where you'd hid 'em.... Say, you've got to carry this bag back, Kerry.... I lugged it out."
"Of course, I'll carry it back; but Norsey"—Kerwin lowered his voice and glanced about him—"you don't suppose they're hanging around here somewhere, do you?"
Norse looked up from the packing. "Hanging around here!" he exclaimed. "Around here! Great Heavens, man! They're a million miles from here and runnin' yet if they're still alive and not scared to death. You ready?"
Kerwin slung the satchel over his shoulder. "Am I all right?" he asked.
Norse stepped back and regarded him curiously, a little smile playing around his mouth. Kerwin's face was very grimy. It looked almost black in the shadow above the white shirt-bosom, and there were three or four unmistakable smudges on that. Moreover it was a cold night for a man to skate three or four miles in evening clothes.
"My! You look funny!" Norse laughed. "But what's the difference?" he added. "Come on...."
Taking him by the arm he steadied him down the creaking stairs. "Now you can go it like the wind, right up to the door of Nickles," he said at the gate. "Are you ready?"
Kerwin dug the toe of his right skate into the crust and crouched like an animal about to spring.
"Go!"