Sam shook his head as he observed them. The ice always was thinner there than in other parts of the pond, and there was seldom a season in which somebody did not regret rashness in straying too close to air-holes. At a time like this there was more or less danger anywhere in the neighborhood of the dam.
“It ought to be roped off,” he told himself; but as there appeared to be no means to carry out this precaution he sat down on the bank and began to put on his skates. This he did leisurely, pausing now and then to run his glance over the skaters. At a little distance up the shore some of the larger boys were building a fire, and were having trouble, their fuel consisting chiefly of long boards torn from an abandoned ice-house. Here a little crowd clustered. Sam thought he had a glimpse of Orkney, but was not certain. As he tightened his last strap, however, and stood up, Step came along, arms and legs flying in an effort to recover the partly lost art of the Dutch roll. At sight of Sam the lanky youth went through some extraordinary contortions, checked his speed, and glided alongside his friend.
“Say! It’s all right—he’s here!” was his greeting.
“Who’s here?” asked Sam, quite unnecessarily.
“Humph! Who you s’pose? Deacon Pender?”
“No,” said Sam coolly. “I don’t imagine you were thinking of the deacon.”
“You bet I wasn’t!” rapped Step. “I was thinking of Tom Orkney.”
Sam peered at the crowd by the fire. “Queer I can’t make him out,” he remarked.
“He’s down at the lower end—along with those kids.”
“Oh!”