CHAPTER XVII.
THE FIRST SNOW.
Rodney Grant seemed to take genuine pleasure in showing his disdain and defiance of public opinion by openly associating with Lander and Davis, and he was seen often in their company. Even Roger Eliot, naturally broad-minded and liberal, could but deplore this; and Stone found himself quite alone in any effort to defend or justify the actions of the singular boy from Texas. It was generally believed and proclaimed that Grant had found associates to his liking, and more than once the old saw, “A person is known by the company he keeps,” was applied to him.
The young people of Oakdale were making the most of the skating when, after a slight warning flurry, a slow, steady downfall of snow set in, growing heavier with the passing of a cloudy afternoon.
“No more fun on the lake for us,” moaned Chub Tuttle, standing more than ankle deep outside the academy as the scholars came trooping forth. “This snow has fixed the skating all right.”
“Snow doubt about it,” punned Chipper Cooper, turning up his coat collar and pulling his cap down over his ears. “We’ll have to take to another line of sport, and it’s likely there won’t even be any sliding worth while for some time to come.”
Nearly all night long it snowed, but with the coming of another dawn the storm ceased, the sky cleared, and the sun beamed cheerfully on a world wrapped in a mantle of white, gleaming with the prismatic colors of millions of diamonds.
At an early hour, having eaten breakfast, Rod Grant was viewing the scene with admiration and pleasure when he discovered two dark figures tracking across the open fields toward the cottage of Miss Priscilla Kent. Immediately he recognized Lander and Davis, watching them with curiosity and interest as he perceived that they were walking on snowshoes. They hailed him as they drew near, and, with his trousers laced into the tops of high, heavy leather boots, he waded out knee-deep to meet them.
“Top of the morning, Roddy,” cried Bunk, in his familiar way. “What are you doing with yourself?”