"Stay here, Bowser!" commanded the latter, shaking his finger in the big dog's face. "Lie down!"
"Don't need to budge from the fire, Wackett," remarked Musgrove. "You can see the whole shooting match from here. Come on, Tim. Is that skating going to be done this morning, Wackett?"
"Whenever you like, Billy Mushroom," returned Hackett, with a steely glare in his eye.
The two boys began slowly climbing up the hill. It was admirably suited to their purpose, being steep and covered with a smooth coating of snow and ice. At the base, it rounded gently upward to a hillock, while the level stretch before it was only here and there covered with underbrush.
"I've often read about that sport," commented Dave Brandon. "Over in Sweden, they take some daring jumps with those things."
"You wouldn't catch me trying it," put in Tom Clifton, nervously.
Hackett sniffed. "It's easy," he asserted. "Must be, if a fellow with a face like Musgrove's can do it. What's the matter with that brute?"
Bowser, who had been intently gazing after his master's form, uttered a series of dismal cries, rising in a sort of crescendo, until the last note was of such a mournful and peculiar loudness that Tom Clifton was positively alarmed.
"Maybe he's going mad," he suggested, brilliantly, edging away.
Dave Brandon laughed. "Tim Sladder has been trying to fool us," he declared. "The dog's as tame as a kitten, and, besides, is nearly as old as the hills—here, you Bowser—come here!"