"Say, Tackett," observed Billy Musgrove, with his ever-present grin, "I—"
"My name is Hackett—John Hackett."
"Oh, it's all the same. Didn't you say that you wanted to see some sport, eh? Well, me and Tim can show you some."
"That's what we want to see."
Musgrove laughed. He pointed to the steep hill back of the hut, then at several strips of wood lying close to the fire. They were about seven feet in length, four inches wide and at one end curved up to a sharp point. In the centre of each was a loop.
"Do you know what them things is, Wackett?" he asked.
"They are called skees, I think," answered Hackett, stiffly.
"That's right," said Musgrove, with a gratified look. "My uncle's a Swede," he went on, "an' over in his country them things is used a lot. Talk about scooting—just watch Tim an' me."
"Going to coast down that hill on those things?" inquired Tom Clifton, in surprise. "It's risky! You might break your neck."
Musgrove's only answer was a loud laugh. He picked up his pair of skees, Tim Sladder following suit.