The following morning, not a little to his wonderment, Rod found his legs were lame and his ankles a trifle stiff. Being a fellow of active temperament and athletic mold, and having ridden the range and punched cows, it vexed him to find his efforts at skating, having lasted less than two hours, should have done him up to such an extent.

“I must be getting soft,” he muttered, as, following a sponge bath, he rubbed himself down and massaged the sore muscles of his legs. “I’ll slump out of any sort of condition if I don’t look out.”

Gradually, as he moved around, the lameness passed away, although it did not wholly disappear. At school he heard the boys talking ice hockey and discussing the organization of a basketball team to furnish sport when, later, snowfalls should put an end to skating; and once more, with a sensation of resentment, he felt himself barred from their circle, although as a student at the academy he should have been one of them. This led him openly to accept the friendly overtures of Spotty Davis, observing which, Ben Stone, who had remained faithful despite public sentiment, did not seem to be wholly pleased. Nevertheless, Stone made no comment.

Lander was not a student at the academy; he had never completed his course in the grammar school, and he now spent his time loafing around the village, being closely watched by the people who knew him of old; for no one trusted him.

With suppressed impatience, Grant waited the coming of another night. It fretted him to see the boys and girls skating on the lake during noontime intermission, yet he found a fascination in watching them, and he noted that Barker and Eliot seemed to be the most graceful, accomplished and proficient of all the fellows. Not until he had acquired much more skill would he be ready to make a public appearance on skates.

Leaving his aunt clearing the table after supper, with the monkey watching her from its perch on the back of a chair and the parrot grumbling in its cage, Rod secured his skates and again turned his steps toward Bear Cove. As he approached the cove he was surprised to hear voices and laughter, and, pausing to listen, he learned that Davis and Lander were there ahead of him.

They were sitting on the shore in the shadow of the pines, and their voices sounded strange, while their laughter was of a high-pitched, unnatural sort. They looked up with a start as he paused beside them, for the carpet of pine needles had muffled his footsteps.

“Who the dickens——” cried Spotty.

“Why, it’s Rod—our friend Rod, Spot,” said Lander. “’Lo, old chap. We’re waiting for you. How is the weather in Texas to-night?”

“’Tis Rod, ain’t it?” whooped Spotty familiarly. “Good old Rod, the cow-puncher and fabricator. Glad to see you, old man. Say, Bunk, where’s that flagon of joy juice?”

“Here ’tis,” said Lander, handing something over. “Great stuff for a cold night; it’s good as an overcoat.”

“Have a nip, Rod,” invited Davis, holding it out as Grant sat down at the edge of the ice.

“What is it?” asked Rodney.

“Some of old Gran’ser Lander’s bottled elixir of life. Gee! it does stir up a feller’s blood and make him feel good and warm. Don’t be afraid of it; take a good pull.”

Davis thrust a gurgling bottle into Grant’s hand.

“Oh, I don’t believe I want any of that stuff,” laughed Rod. “I’m not cold.”

“Do you good, just the same,” declared Bunk. “You don’t know what we’re offering you. It’s nothing but harmless cider. Go ahead and try it.”

Thus adjured, the boy from Texas removed the stopper and tipped the bottle to his lips. One small swallow was quite enough; he spat out the second mouthful.

“Cider!” he exclaimed. “It tastes like vinegar to me. You don’t mean to say you like that stuff?”

“No vinegar about it,” said Lander, with a touch of indignation. “It’s just plain hard cider, doctored and bottled by my old grandpop. I had hard work sneaking it out under my coat. Perhaps you may not like the taste of it at first, Rod, but you’ll get so you’ll like it if you keep trying it.”

“It gives you that funny feeling, that funny feeling,” chanted Davis, ending with a silly laugh.

Disgusted with them, Rod forced the bottle into Spotty’s hands.

“My father is a temperance man,” he said. “He won’t have a drop of booze around the ranch, for he’s seen the bad effects of it. One of our best men got his skin full and was lost in a norther. When they found him he was pretty near gone, and he lost both hands from that freeze—made him a cripple for life.”

“Oh, that was different,” said Bunk. “He had been drinking the real stuff; this is only cider.”

Nevertheless, Grant, preparing to clamp on his skates, firmly refused to touch the bottle again. Lander and Davis had another drink, and then they attached their own skates to their feet.

“I’m afraid,” Said Spotty, rising somewhat unsteadily, “that you’re a rather tame old cowboy, Rod. I’m afraid that’s why the fellers don’t take much stock in you. You duck at everything.”

“They’re welcome to take as little stock in me as they choose,” said Grant, a trifle warmly. “I came out here to learn to skate, not to guzzle old cider.”

They followed him onto the ice, and Spotty, attempting to do some fancy tricks, sprawled at full length, whereupon he sat up, whooping with laughter.

“Hold on, Grant,” called Lander, as Rod started off. “We’re going to give you further instructions, you know. Don’t mind Spotty. That upper story of his is so light he can’t keep his balance.”

“Never mind me,” returned Rodney; “I reckon I’ll get along all right.”

He was gratified to find he had lost none of the slight knack at skating acquired on the previous night, and this gave him so much confidence that he rapidly improved. At first his lame ankles protested, but they soon ceased their rebellion, and a sense of exhilaration came to him as he found himself swinging back and forth across the cove with fairly long strokes and remarkable steadiness. Nevertheless, he was annoyed by his companions, who persisted in following him and getting in his way, offering suggestions and making silly remarks. To get away from them he skated out toward the open lake.

Suddenly round Pine Point flashed a light, followed by another and another. Half a dozen boys, bearing torches, came upon Grant and his persistent mates ere they could escape. Three of the torch bearers were Eliot, Barker and Rollins. Berlin flashed the light of his torch upon them, and then, whirling to skate backwards as he went past, cried out to the others:

“Here’s a fine collection! The cow-puncher has found some company to suit his taste.”

This produced a laugh, which appeared greatly to irritate Lander, who shouted:

“Go on, you bunch of dubs! Nobody wants anything to do with you, anyhow.”

Spotty Davis broke into a series of derisive cat-calls and taunting jeers, to which the torch bearers gave no heed. Some of the party turned back at that point, but two or three continued on round the northern end of Bass Island.

“They make me sick!” snarled Lander. “I’m going to get at that feller Barker some day, and when I do he’ll know something has happened to him.”

In spite of himself, Grant could not wholly smother a feeling of regret over having been seen with those two chaps. Barker’s sneer had left a sting, a fact which he would not have acknowledged had any one intimated as much. Wishing to get away by himself, he improved an early opportunity to skate off, leaving Bunk and Spotty still telling each other what they thought of certain fellows in Oakdale; and he paid little heed to his course until, of a sudden, he discovered the shore of Bass Island not far away at his right.

“Jingoes!” he muttered, attempting to check his progress suddenly. “This must be the dangerous place they told me about. Those ‘breathing holes’ in the ice——”

In spite of his efforts, his momentum had carried him onward, and suddenly both skate-irons cut through beneath him. There was a terrifying, cracking sound, and in a twinkling he felt himself plunged into the icy water. A cry was cut short on his lips as he went under.

Although he rose almost immediately to the surface and clutched at the thin edge of the ice, he could feel the current which swept round the island pulling at his legs. The ice gave way, and he clutched again and again, struggling to keep himself from being sucked beneath it.

“Help!” he cried.

A moving, flashing light gleamed across the glassy surface of the lake. It was followed by another and still another. The three torch bearers, who had circled round the island, were now speeding southward. Two of them seemed to be racing far over toward the western shore of the lake. Apparently the third had not joined in this contest, and he was much nearer.

“Help!” called Rod once more.

The nearest skater heard the cry and swerved suddenly in Grant’s direction.

“What’s the matter?” he shouted. “Where are you?”

“Here—here in the water. I’ve broken in.”

Grant’s teeth rattled together as he uttered these words, the icy chill of the lake seeming to benumb him through and through. Nevertheless, he fancied he had recognized the voice of the approaching fellow as that of Hunk Rollins, and a moment later the waving torch, lighting the face of its bearer, showed beyond question that it was Rollins.

At a safe distance Hunk came to a full stop. “Who is it?” he called again.

“It’s I—Grant. Can’t seem to lift myself out. I can barely hang on.”

“Jerusalem!” gasped Hunk. “I don’t dare to get near you. It’s dangerous there.” Then he whirled swiftly and went skating away as fast as he could, yelling at the top of his voice: “Hi! hi! fellers! Come back! Grant’s broke in!”

To the dismay of the boy in the water, the racing torch bearers did not seem to hear Rollins, who continued to pursue them, repeating his calls. Farther and farther away they went, the sound of their skates ringing over the surface of the lake.

“By the time he overtakes them I’ll be done for,” thought the unfortunate lad; and even as this passed through his mind the ice broke again, compelling him to make another struggle to fling his arms out upon it. In that terrible moment it seemed that Rollins had deliberately deserted him—had even been willing to leave him there to perish.

“I must get out alone. I must get out somehow,” he mumbled huskily. “If it wasn’t for the current I might——”

Again the ringing sound of skates reached his ears, and hope flared up strong as that sound became more and more distinct. It came from the direction of Bass Cove, and, approaching across the ice, he discovered two figures, one in advance of the other.

“Hi, there! Hi, Grant! Is that you? Where are you? What’s the matter?”

It was the voice of Lander.

“Here! here!” answered Rod, as loudly as he could. “I’ve broken in. Can’t you help me?”

“Look out, Bunk,” warned Spotty, who was behind. “It’s dangerous there.”

One of Lander’s skates raked along the ice as he set it sidewise to check his speed.

“I see him!” he cried. “There he is, Spot! Hang on, Grant, old feller; we’ll get you out somehow. Hang on a little longer.”

Away he went toward the nearby island, while Davis, getting down on all fours, crawled cautiously toward Rodney. From the shore of the island came a cracking sound, like some one thrashing amid the underbrush and saplings which grew upon it.

“We told ye,” said Spotty—“we told ye to keep away from here. Gee! you’re in a bad fix. If we had a rope or something, we might haul you out.”

“You’ll have to get busy pretty soon,” returned Grant. “The way this current pulls is something fierce.”

Out from the shore of the island flashed Lander, bearing a long pole in his hands. Making a half circle, he passed Spotty, who uttered some cautioning words, slowing down as he drew near Grant.

“Come on, Spot,” he urged. “The ice seems to be solid here. We’ve got to pull him out of that. Here, Rod, old man, get hold of the end of this pole if you can—get hold and hang on for your life.”

Grant grasped the end of the pole with both hands, having lifted the upper part of his body onto the edge of the ice, which buckled and permitted the water to flow up around him, although it did not break. Urged by Lander, Davis ventured nearer and added his strength in pulling. Together they dragged the weakened and nearly exhausted lad out onto the solid ice.

“Come,” said Bunk, seizing the water-soaked chap and lifting him, “stand on your pins if you can. We’ve got to hustle you under cover before you freeze stiff. Just stand up, and we’ll push you along.”

Down the lake they swept with him, meeting Rollins, Barker and several others, who, still bearing torches, were returning.

“Oh, you’ve pulled him out, have you?” cried Hunk.

“No thanks to you,” flung back Lander. “We heard him hollering to you. Why didn’t you stop and help? He’d ’a’ drownded for all of you.”

“I went after the other fellers,” said Hunk.

“And if you’d had any sense at all,” sneered Lander, “you’d known he’d ’a’ gone down before you could bring them. You didn’t have nerve enough to give him a hand, that’s all. Here’s your friend Barker with Mr. Rollins, Grant.”

“So I observe,” said Rod. “He’s found some company to suit his taste.”