“That’s right good of you, Ben, old man; but I don’t think I’ll try it—now.”
“Why not?”
“Well, to tell you the plain truth, I’m not anxious to make an exhibition of myself before everybody. Sometime, perhaps, I’ll sneak off by my lonesome and have a go at it. Is the ice solid all over the lake?”
“Well, pretty nearly all over it. There are one or two weak spots, but we know where they are, and we keep away from them.”
“Do you swim?”
“Sure; don’t you?”
“Yes, but I fancy it would be right unpleasant to take a dip in that icy water.”
Ben was thinking of Grant’s words as he clamped on his skates at the edge of the lake down behind the gymnasium. There was something strangely contradictory about the boy from Texas, who had betrayed a disposition to swagger a bit and to boast in a joshing way, but who would not fight, who had refused to play football, and who now was plainly indisposed to make himself an object for jesting or ridicule by attempting to skate. Whether this backwardness came from a sensitive temperament, or whether Grant was actually lacking in courage, was a question Ben could not decide. There had seemed to be some timidity in the fellow’s desire to know whether or not the ice was sufficiently strong for skating all over the lake. Finally, swinging away to join some shouting lads who were engaged in an impromptu game of hockey, Stone dismissed the problem.
Even then Grant was on his way to Stickney’s store, where he purchased a pair of skates. Supper over that night, he set off alone toward the upper end of Lake Woodrim.