I never noticed until that moment that there are traces of dimples in her cheeks.  Unless Venus had dimples she had no just claim to be crowned the goddess of love and beauty.

“Jim,” said Mr. Harding, addressing our host, when coffee was served, “did you know our friend Smith when he was a kid?”

“Knew him when he couldn’t look over this table,” replied Mr. Bishop.

“What kind of a boy was he?”

“Full of the Old Nick, like most healthy boys,” he answered.  “He and my boy Joe went to school together, got into trouble together and got out of it again.  What was it the boys used to call you, Jack?” he said to me, a twinkle in his eye.

“Never mind,” I said, and attempted to turn the conversation, but it was no use.

“They used to call him ‘Socks Smith,’” said Bishop.  “That was it, ’Socks Smith.’  I hadn’t thought of it in years.”

“What an alliterative nickname,” laughed Mrs. Chilvers.  “How did you ever acquire it, Mr. Smith?”

“He won’t tell ye,” declared my tormentor, without waiting for me to say a word, “but it’s nothin’ to his discredit.  You know that mill pond where—­”

“Don’t tell that incident,” I protested.

“Tell it!  Tell it, Mr. Bishop!” pleaded Miss Lawrence, Miss Harding, and others in chorus.

“Sure I’ll tell it,” continued Bishop.  “As I was saying, you all know the mill pond where you folks try to drive golf balls over.  Well, it uster be bigger an’ deeper than it is now, and in the winter it was the skating place for all the lads in the neighbourhood.  Up at the far end there is a spring, and even in the coldest weather it don’t freeze over above that spring.”

“One bitter cold day—­and it never gets cold enough to keep boys off smooth ice—­young Smith, here—­he was about twelve or fourteen years old at that time—­was out on the ice with his skates on, wrapped up in an overcoat, a comforter over his ears and thick mittens on his hands, skatin’ around that pond with my boy Joe and other lads, all of them thinkin’ they was havin’ the time of their lives.  Mother, what was the name of that poor family that lived over in the old Bobbins’ house at the time?”

“Andersons,” said Mrs. Bishop.

“That’s right; Andersons,” continued the Boswell of my infantile exploits.  “Well, these Andersons were so poor they didn’t have any skates, but some of the boys had let them take a sled, and two of these little Anderson kids were slidin’ around on the ice and havin’ all the fun they could, even if they didn’t have skates.  I suppose their toes was as cold and their noses as blue, and that’s half of skatin’ or sleighin’.”

“Smith, Joe, and the other skaters were on the southwest end of the pond playin’ ‘pigeon goal,’ and these poor Anderson kids were slidin’ around up at the other end where they would be out of the way.  The wind was blowin’ pretty hard, and I suppose they were careless; anyhow a gust struck them and swept them along into that air hole.”