The Captain was sitting in a queer little bowl of
a skiff on the deck of his tug, and rocking it like
a cradle, as he talked.
“Bosting’s always hard to beat in anything,”
rejoined the ex-Chairman. “But if Bosting
is to be beat, here’s the man to do it.”
* * * *
*
And now, perhaps, gentle reader, you think I have
said enough in behalf of a limited fraternity, the
Skaters.
The next chapter, then, shall take up the cause of
the Lovers, a more numerous body, and we will see
whether True Love, which never makes “smooth
running,” can help its progress by a skate-blade.
“GO NOT, HAPPY DAY, TILL THE MAIDEN YIELDS.”
Christmas noon at Dunderbunk. Every skater was
in galloping glee,—as the electric air,
and the sparkling sun, and the glinting ice had a right
to expect that they all should be.
Belle Purtett, skating simply and well, had never
looked so pretty and graceful. So thought Bill
Tarbox.
He had not spoken to her, nor she to him, for more
than six months. The poor fellow was ashamed
of himself and penitent for his past bad courses.
And so, though he longed to have his old flame recognize
him again, and though he was bitterly jealous and
miserably afraid he should lose her, he had kept away
and consumed his heart like a true despairing lover.
But to-day Bill was a lion, only second to Wade, the
unapproachable lion-in-chief. Bill was reinstated
in public esteem, and had won back his standing in
the Foundry. He had to-day made a speech which
Perry Purtett gave everybody to understand “none
of Senator Bill Seward’s could hold the tallow
to.” Getting up the meeting and presenting
Wade with the skates was Bill’s own scheme,
and it had turned out an eminent success. Everything
began to look bright to him. His past life drifted
out of his mind like the rowdy tales he used to read
in the Sunday newspapers.
He had watched Belle Purtett all the morning, and
saw that she distinguished nobody with her smiles,
not even that coq du village, Ringdove.
He also observed that she was furtively watching him.
By-and-by she sailed out of the crowd, and went off
a little way to practise.
“Now,” said he to himself, “sail
in, Bill Tarbox!”
Belle heard the sharp strokes of a powerful skater
coming after her. Her heart divined who this
might be. She sped away like the swift Camilla,
and her modest drapery showed just enough and “ne
quid nimis” of her ankles.
Bill admired the grace and the ankles immensely.
But his hopes sank a little at the flight,—for
he thought she perceived his chase and meant to drop
him. Bill had not bad a classical education, and
knew nothing of Galatea in the Eclogue,—how
she did not hide, until she saw her swain was looking
fondly after.
“She wants to get away,” he thought “But
she sha’n’t,—no, not if I have
to follow her to Albany.”
