Rodney Grant seemed to take genuine pleasure in showing his disdain and defiance of public opinion by openly associating with Lander and Davis, and he was seen often in their company. Even Roger Eliot, naturally broad-minded and liberal, could but deplore this; and Stone found himself quite alone in any effort to defend or justify the actions of the singular boy from Texas. It was generally believed and proclaimed that Grant had found associates to his liking, and more than once the old saw, “A person is known by the company he keeps,” was applied to him.

The young people of Oakdale were making the most of the skating when, after a slight warning flurry, a slow, steady downfall of snow set in, growing heavier with the passing of a cloudy afternoon.

“No more fun on the lake for us,” moaned Chub Tuttle, standing more than ankle deep outside the academy as the scholars came trooping forth. “This snow has fixed the skating all right.”

“Snow doubt about it,” punned Chipper Cooper, turning up his coat collar and pulling his cap down over his ears. “We’ll have to take to another line of sport, and it’s likely there won’t even be any sliding worth while for some time to come.”

Nearly all night long it snowed, but with the coming of another dawn the storm ceased, the sky cleared, and the sun beamed cheerfully on a world wrapped in a mantle of white, gleaming with the prismatic colors of millions of diamonds.

At an early hour, having eaten breakfast, Rod Grant was viewing the scene with admiration and pleasure when he discovered two dark figures tracking across the open fields toward the cottage of Miss Priscilla Kent. Immediately he recognized Lander and Davis, watching them with curiosity and interest as he perceived that they were walking on snowshoes. They hailed him as they drew near, and, with his trousers laced into the tops of high, heavy leather boots, he waded out knee-deep to meet them.

“Top of the morning, Roddy,” cried Bunk, in his familiar way. “What are you doing with yourself?”

“Morning, Lander. Morning, Davis. I was just getting ready to turn myself into a human steam-plough and wield my aunt’s big shovel. Got to open up the path as far as the road, you know.”

“That’s work,” grinned Davis, two missing front teeth in his upper jaw giving him anything but an appearance of comeliness. “Work was made for slaves.”

“But you Yanks took away our slaves,” reminded Rod jovially, “and so we have to bend our backs like common people.”

“Eh?” grunted Spotty in surprise. “Your slaves? Why, Texas—why, I’ve always thought of Texas as a Western State, and——”

“We’re right proud to be called Southerners,” said Rod. “Find any sport walking on those things?”

“Oh, it’s sport in a way,” answered Lander. “Besides, a feller can get around almost anywhere on ’em, no matter how deep the snow is. I and Spot have been talking about going over to my camp Sat’day. Without snowshoes we’d have to do some tall wading. If we can get a dog, and the snow packs down some, perhaps we’ll try the rabbits a crack—and that’s sport. Ever shoot rabbits?”

“Jacks.”

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard about them. Our rabbits are different; they’re good to eat. Say, it would be fun to shoot a few and have a rabbit stew over at my camp. I can make the stew, too.”

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” admitted Grant, who had a taste for hunting.

“Want to come in on it? Come ahead. I’ve been telling Spot I thought we might borrow old Lem Sawyer’s hound, Rouser. He’s a good dog, though, like Lem, he’s getting rather old. Lem’s laid up with the rheumatism this winter, and I don’t believe he will do much rabbitin’.”

“I’d have to have some snowshoes and a gun,” said Rod.

“Bet we could get them of Sawyer. You know how to shoot?”

“A little,” smiled the boy from Texas, “but I don’t know much about using snowshoes, though, watching you fellows, it seems easy enough.”

Spotty chuckled. “Try it,” he invited. “Try mine. Go ahead.”

Obligingly he slipped his toes out of the straps and stepped off into the snow. Grant was willing enough to make the trial and, wading alongside, he mounted on Spotty’s snowshoes. Having inserted his toes beneath the straps, he started off with a confidence that was soon upset, as he was himself by stepping on one snowshoe with the other, which plunged him to the full length of his arms, burying his face in the snow. Nor could he rise until he had succeeded in getting his feet free from the snowshoes, after which he floundered part way over and stood up to discover Both Davis and Lander convulsed with laughter.

“Looks easy enough, don’t it?” cried Bunk hilariously.

“Hang the things!” growled Rod, his face flushed with chagrin. “They seem contrary as an unbusted bronch. You fellows don’t have any trouble managing them.”

“There’s a little trick to it that you’ll have to learn,” explained Lander. “To begin with, those boots of yours are too stiff and heavy. You see, I’ve got on moccasins, and Spotty’s wearing some limber-soled shoes. You’ve got to lift the front end of the snowshoes with your toe and let the heel drag, slipping the shoe forward as you step, this fashion. Watch me and get wise.”

Grant watched Bunk walk around easily in a broad circle, which brought him back to the starting point.

“I see,” nodded the boy from Texas, “and I reckon I can catch onto it after a little practice. Where can I get a pair of moccasins?”

“Stickney carries ’em; he carries everything. Mebbe Lem Sawyer’ll have an old pair he’ll sell cheap, for he’s hard up and needs the money. I’ll find out if you want me to.”

“Go ahead. I’ve never yet mounted anything I couldn’t master, and, having been bucked off by a pair of snowshoes, I’m right eager to get busy in proper fashion with the things. Think I’ll get the shovel now and go at it opening the path. I won’t have much more than time to finish that job before school.”

Having watched them depart, he went at his task, making the snow fly with a pair of lusty arms, which, in spite of the heavy work, betrayed no weariness until he had finished.

At noon that day Davis informed him that Lander had succeeded in borrowing Sawyer’s dog, gun and snowshoes for the following Saturday, and that Sawyer had agreed to sell his moccasins at a bargain if they were what Rod wanted.

“We’ll show you some fun,” promised Spotty. “We’re going over to Bunk’s old camp to-night to see if everything is all right there. If it is, we’ll have the stuff ready for a stew Saturday, and as sure as we can start any rabbits we’ll give you a feed that will be good for a hungry man. Watch for us in the morning. We’re going to show you how to navigate on snowshoes.”

They came the following morning, bringing the snowshoes and moccasins, and Rod had his first lesson. As soon as he caught onto the knack of it, he made satisfactory progress, and was praised by both Spotty and Bunk, although he found it impossible to get over the snow for any distance with as much speed and ease as they could.

“You’re coming all right, old man,” assured Lander. “I’ve seen lots of fellers try it who didn’t get along half as fast. Just you keep practicing, and you’ll break in fine.”

Rodney continued to practice, and by Saturday he had thoroughly mastered the art of getting around with considerable skill and ease upon snowshoes.

Friday night about an inch of light snow fell on top of the other, which had settled beneath the rays of the sun, giving a perfect opportunity for rabbit tracking, as Lander joyously explained when he and Spotty appeared at an early hour. They were leading Sawyer’s old black-and-tan hound, and, besides their own guns, they brought the man’s double-barreled breech loader for Rodney.

And so, thoroughly equipped, the boys set off for the day’s sport.