Kid didn’t agree to do that, but he got the box. It lacked just one tablet. In the course of the next half-hour Kid had gained possession of four other boxes by similar methods, and it was only the work of a minute to make three full boxes from the four. Then he waited on the Doctor and Nan and returned fifty cents richer. The sight of Mr. Crane on the porch suggested more dickering, for Mr. Folsom had purchased and Mr. Crane had not, owing to the supply of tablets having given out before his application had been entered. By the end of afternoon school Kid had given pleasure to Mr. Crane by selling him a box of Tinkham’s, too, and Kid’s assets had gone up to six dollars and forty-five cents.
But, as is so often the way, wealth did not bring happiness. Kid was troubled. To use his own phraseology, there was going to be an awful row when his father received that letter from Doctor Merton. For a while Kid wished that the baseball trophy had never been thought of. Also, all enthusiasm for the merits of Tinkham’s Throat-Ease had passed. He would settle with the people for what he had had and the fund would have to be satisfied with four dollars and forty-five cents instead of ten dollars. He was through with merchandizing!
And doubtless he would have stuck to that resolution if he had not, on the way to the rink in the afternoon to see the hockey game, by chance kicked up the box of tablets that Lanny had thrown away. Kid did not recognize at first the snow-covered object that his foot had struck, but examination revealed forty-nine perfectly good tablets, and Kid brushed the crust of snow from the box and dropped it into his pocket. Just one of those tablets would make complete the box he had in his room, and, thoughtfully, Kid turned and retraced his steps, although Mr. Crane was at that instant blowing the whistle to start the game. But Kid’s errand was soon completed and he was back at the rink, sandwiched in between Small and Bert.
That was a good game. The House Team, by hard practice, had secured a degree of team play that very nearly offset the playing of the Day Team’s individual stars. The first half ended with the score a tie at 4 to 4, and house students and day students, players and onlookers alike, were keyed up to a state of wild enthusiasm. Lanny, who had played hard and brilliantly and somewhat heedlessly, at right wing in place of Cupples, joined his classmates at the barrier, struggling into his sweater and panting for breath. He perched himself on the top of the boards and examined proudly a set of skinned knuckles. Bert was concerned, but Kid, constantly oppressed by the knowledge of coming calamity, chose to be sarcastic.
“How’d you cut you? Burn you?” he asked. “Say, Lanny, it’s a wonder you wouldn’t have them take you to the infirmary with that awful wound.”
“Don’t get fresh,” responded Lanny scowlingly. Kid smiled his sweetest.
“You’re fresher than I am, Lanny; you’ve been on the ice most of the time! Hasn’t anyone ever explained to you that it’s part of the game to stay on your feet?”
Lanny maintained a dignified silence.
“Also,” proceeded Kid thoughtfully, “if you stay back of the puck you may get a chance to make a shot, Lanny.”
“Cut it out, Kid! Lanny played a mighty good game.” Bert frowned his disapproval.