"Now see here, Old Saint"—one of the boys was thoroughly provoked and he meant to show it—"if you want to go around the world making yourself disagreeable, just keep on with that talk, 'we ought to stop' and so forth. Don't you suppose we know what we're about. There's plenty of time to catch that train. I for one shall have one more skate up the pond and back, and I'll bet you a new knife I'm at the depot as soon as you are."
"St. George doesn't preach," cried an impulsive champion. "And besides, he always does first himself."
"Well, you hold your tongue," cried Wingate Morse, tightening his skate-strap; "I wasn't talking to you."
"Say that again, and I'll pitch into you," declared the champion with a very red face not altogether produced by the sharp air.
"Haven't any time," said Wingate, striking off. "Come on, all you fellow's who are able to take care of yourselves, and get one good glorious good-by skate."
All but two, the champion and St. George went, and their merry shouts came floating back as the pair left behind took off their skates, tossed them hurriedly into their waiting bags and set off on a hearty run for the depot.
"I wanted to go awfully," confessed the champion on the way, "but I'll stick by you, St. George."
"I'm unpopular," said the Saint, pulling up into a walk as they came into sight of the depot. "But I suppose that makes no odds so long as my mother isn't scared to death when I don't get home by the right time."
"They're lost, they're lost!" exclaimed the champion excitedly. "My goodness me! look at that smoke! She's coming in!"
Sure enough, "She" was. And having no time to lose other than the moment in which the champion wildly jumped up and down in a snow-drift screaming to the fellows, by this time at the head of the pond, to "Come on—she's in!" they soon found themselves in a comfortable seat, and the train pulling back to town at a smart rate.