"There; there are your trousers.... Freeze if it wasn't for that stove, eh? Thoughtful of them, wasn't it? Here's your vest! What's the matter?

Can't you b.u.t.ton your collar? Scott, man, you've got to hustle! Touched her off just the right time, eh? Worked themselves all up talking about that other haunted.... Here's your coat! Say, you've got to hustle to make it; there's not over twenty minutes to spare!..."

"But, Norsey, it's no use. I can't get back to town in twenty minutes.

Why, it will take two hours, walking over that crust...."

"You're not going to walk.--Gad! Here, let me tie that bow for you!

Say, but you've got to hustle!..."

"Not going to walk! You don't mean to say you've got a carriage...."

"Hardly. Just time to get here myself."

"Well, I'd like to know, then, how...."

"_You're going to skate back to town, that's how--on my skates!_"

He rushed into the little room, and returning, held out his skates to Kerwin. Kerwin didn't seize them. He seized the youth's hand.

"Norsey," he muttered, with the faintest suggestion of a tremor in his voice, "you're the best old pal a chap ever had...."

"Oh, never mind the bouquets," Norse broke in. "Lemme see; you got all your clothes on? Those shoes are pretty bad for a swell function; but they'll be under the table. Yes, I guess you're all right. Take these skates and clamp 'em while I pack your other clothes in the satchel.

Lucky you told me where you'd hid 'em.... Say, you've got to carry this bag back, Kerry.... I lugged it out."

"Of course, I'll carry it back; but Norsey"--Kerwin lowered his voice and glanced about him--"you don't suppose they're hanging around here somewhere, do you?"

Norse looked up from the packing. "Hanging around here!" he exclaimed.

"Around _here_! Great Heavens, man! They're a million miles from here and runnin' yet if they're still alive and not scared to death. You ready?"

Kerwin slung the satchel over his shoulder. "Am I all right?" he asked.

Norse stepped back and regarded him curiously, a little smile playing around his mouth. Kerwin's face was very grimy. It looked almost black in the shadow above the white shirt-bosom, and there were three or four unmistakable smudges on that. Moreover it was a cold night for a man to skate three or four miles in evening clothes.

"My! You look funny!" Norse laughed. "But what's the difference?" he added. "Come on...."

Taking him by the arm he steadied him down the creaking stairs. "Now you can go it like the wind, right up to the door of Nickles," he said at the gate. "Are you ready?"

Kerwin dug the toe of his right skate into the crust and crouched like an animal about to spring.

"Go!"

For a moment his body was poised like a blot above the brow of the hill, then it disappeared.

Norse heard his name shouted. He ran forward and peered down.

"What's up?" he called.

"Nothing. I just wanted to say I'll suggest the toast 'The Kidnapping'

and then you'll tell the whole tale. It'll make 'em look like a postage stamp...."

Norse laughed. "Why, I'm not going to your darn banquet," he said.

"Not going! The idea! You are, too, going."

"No, I'm not," Norse contended, "I've got something else to do...."

"What?"

"I've got to go over to Ypsilanti and tell Miss Green I can't take that picture of her room till next week. I'm as near there now as I am home...."

Before Kerwin could call to him again he turned on his heel and walked away.

Fifty yards along he glanced back over his shoulder. What he saw caused a sort of Mephistophelian grin to curve his lips.

Smoke, like a billowy veil in the moonlight, was rolling from the unboarded windows of the haunted house, and through the cracks he glimpsed the dance of flames.

"The stove must have been kicked over in the shuffle," he muttered, unctuously.

A moment he stood there watching the growth of the fire, then, resolutely turning his face to the east, he moved on down the icy road.

THE CHAMPIONS

I

"You can't do it, Nibs,--you can't do it--you may have the spurt speed, but you haven't got the wind."

"Rot--why, you don't know what you're talking about, Jimmy; I can beat him forty ways. _Look at those legs!_"

And the lank creature thrust them into view and patted them affectionately between the knee and the hip.

"Oh, I know you've got the legs, Nibs," was the indifferent reply, "it's the wind you're shy of."

"What does wind amount to in a hundred yards, I'd like to know? All a fellow needs is a good breath at the pistol. A good one will carry him over the string." The speaker leaned across the table; "Now, on the square, Jimmy, don't you think I can beat Billy Shaw?" he asked eagerly.

The young man opposite, tilting back his chair, eyed his companion critically from under half-dropped lids. He flecked the ash from his cigarette, scrupulous that it should not dust his clothes, and said slowly, and more as though by way of encouragement than expressive of an opinion--"Well, of course, there's a chance."

Nibs smiled broadly, at that, and settled back, apparently quite satisfied.

"I knew you were joking," he said.

It was a Sat.u.r.day evening. Had the dial of the Court House clock been illuminated, it would have shown the hour to be half-past seven. On the corner, a gasolene lamp was burning at the top of a weather-stained post. In front of the Opera House an Uncle Tom's Cabin band was straining at the melancholy air, "Ma.s.sa's In de Col', Col' Ground,"

played in _circus tempo_. Now and then was heard the scuffle of hurrying feet on the tar walk outside.

Nibs Morey and Jimmy Hulburt sat in silence for a s.p.a.ce.

No one had ever been able--if, indeed, any one had sought--to fathom the friendship that for two years had been maintained unbroken between these two. Perhaps it was due to the counter effect of Hulburt's derision of Morey's abundant conceit, for had Nibs Morey been asked to cite an instance of Jimmy's championing him, he, positively, would have failed.