“Oh, we’ve got our reasons. You see Lander he’s just come back to Oakdale after being away for a couple of years, and he don’t care much about the fellers ’round here.”
“They’re a lot of stiffs, the whole bunch of them,” said Lander. “Spotty is the only friend I have got in town that I care a rap about. He’s the only one who seemed glad to see me back. Some of ’em wouldn’t even say hullo.”
“I guess Grant knows what they are,” chuckled Davis. “They’ve handed him the frosty, too. That was some of Berlin Barker’s work, and the rest of the crowd fell into line.”
“Barker!” sneered Lander. “He thinks he’s somebody. I ain’t got no use for him, nor for Roger Eliot, either.”
“Eliot!” snapped Davis. “He threw me down; kicked me off the team. I won’t forget it, and some day, perhaps, I’ll have a chance to get even. Just learning to skate, Grant?”
“Just trying my hand at it—I mean my foot.”
“You certainly was making a mess,” snickered Spotty. “You need some one to give you a few pointers. Wait till we put on our skates, and we’ll show you. Eh, Bunk?”
“Sure,” agreed Lander cheerfully. “I don’t believe there’s anybody around Oakdale can skate better than me.”
“You seem to have a right good opinion of yourself,” said Rod, as the two boys seated themselves on the ice and began fastening on their skates.
“Oh, there ain’t much of anything I can’t do first-class,” boasted Bunk Lander. “I’m a ripping good swimmer, and I can play baseball and football as well as the next feller.”