“Hee! hee! hee!” laughed another voice.
He could see them there at the edge of the ice, two dark figures faintly discernible in spite of the black background of pines.
“You seem to be plenty amused, gents,” he observed sarcastically. “I opine I’m providing a better entertainment than a real circus clown could hand out; but I want you to understand this is a strictly private show, and you’re not at all welcome unless you can show invitation cards.”
“Oh, say!” piped a high-pitched voice; “it’s the feller from Texas, I guess. He don’t seem to know much about skating.”
“How did you ever get that idea?” growled Rod. “I’m the champion skater of the Panhandle country. I’ll guarantee you can’t find a native son of Rogers County, Texas, who can show me any points at skating.”
One of the fellows came sliding out onto the ice, followed slowly by the other.
“Funny you should be all alone here,” said the chap in advance. “You know me—Spotty Davis.”
“Oh, Davis!” muttered Rod, not particularly mollified, recalling instantly that he had heard something about the fellow having been concerned in a particularly low and contemptible trick upon Stone, which had placed him in decided disfavor at Oakdale. “What are you doing here?”
“Me and my friend, Lander, came over here to skate,” explained Spotty.
“Why didn’t you skate down the lake with the rest of the fellows?”