Part 33 (2/2)
No sooner said than they were off. Silvey's new skates cut the ice cleanly at every stroke, while his chum's duller pair skidded and slid now and then as he gained headway. Along the narrowing, west pond, past helpless beginners whose efforts not to appear ridiculous made them doubly so, past staid business men, past arm-linked couples from the university dormitories, and out on the thirty-foot path of sc.r.a.ped ice which encircled the island. There Silvey slowed up.
”Getting b.u.mpy,” he cautioned. ”Watch out!”
The warning came too late. John's skate sank to his shoe sole in a crack and sent him sprawling. He stood up shakily and rubbed a bruised knee.
”First fall, first fall,” yelled Bill as he turned back. ”Hurt much?”
John shook his head and started off again bravely. They got into the swing of it as they swept under the second island bridge and out on the last lap of the course. Faster and faster their legs flew over the ice as they dodged cracks with more certainty. Skater after skater was left behind, often by a hair's-breadth margin of safety which evoked half-heard protests as they skimmed on.
”Almost there,” shouted Bill as he increased his efforts to the utmost.
”Tie,” yelled John as he shot over and grabbed an arch of the northern bridge to stop his momentum. ”Look at the crowd. What's happened?”
They skated slowly over and around until they found a thin s.p.a.ce in the human circle which allowed them a view of proceedings.
”Fancy skaters,” whispered Bill. ”Look at him write his name on the ice.”
”And the medals on his sweater. Gee, don't you wish you were him?”
A voice broke in on them.
”Scatter there, scatter.” The policeman forced his way to the center.
”You're blocking the way to the skating house. Keep moving!”
In obedience to the majesty of the law, the boys skated off and found a secluded, smooth bit of ice nearer sh.o.r.e. There, John tried to cut a shaky ”J” on the ice and fell over backwards. Shortly afterward, Silvey met with a similar fate, and the boys looked at each other despondently.
Both pairs of ankles were aching badly from the unaccustomed exercise, but neither wanted to admit it. Silvey loosened one of his skate straps.
”Got your watch, John?”
It showed a quarter past nine. ”Our mothers'll be waiting for us,” he said. Thus a way to honorable retreat was found.
They stamped stiffly back to the warming house and took off their skates. John held his numbed fingers as near to the glowing coal stove in the center of the room as he dared, while Bill studied the age-stained menu over the lunch counter.
”My treat,” he said, as he drew a bright half-dollar from his pocket.
”What'll you have?”
John ordered his favorite, mince pie; his host, a cut of half-baked apple. They washed the food down with a gla.s.s of cider apiece, and stumbled out on the board walk toward home.
”Feel's funny, walking after you've had skates on,” John commented as they trudged along the dark path. Silvey spoke up, ”Say, John.”
”Yes?”
”You know Sid DuPree?”
He nodded.
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