“Rubber. Haven’t you ever played hockey?”
“No. When I was a kid we used to whack a block of wood around with sticks, but it wasn’t much like this hockey. Looks like you’ve got almost as many rules as there are in football. You’re a pretty nice skater, ain’t you?”
“Not as good as some of the fellows,” replied Clem. “You skate, of course.”
Jim nodded. “That’s ’bout the only thing I can do real well,” he answered. “Don’t believe I could get around the way you do, though; dodge and turn so quick and all like that. I ain’t so bad at skating fast, but I’ve got to have plenty of room.”
“Better go into the races Saturday morning,” suggested Clem. “What’s your distance?”
“Distance?”
“Yes, what are you best at? Half-mile? Mile? Two miles?”
“Why, I don’t know. I’ve skated in a lot of races, you might say, but we didn’t ever measure them. We’d race, generally, from the old boat-house to the inlet; on Lower Pond, you know. Guess that’s about three-quarters of a mile; more or less.”
“Why don’t you enter for Saturday, then?” asked Clem. “You ought to be able to do the mile if you’ve been doing the three-quarters, Todd.”
“Well, I don’t know. Would you? Does it cost anything?”