The sun shone brightly but the air was
crisp and cold, and snow and ice lay sparkling everywhere. A light
wind, the night before, had swept the blue, icebound river clean of
scattering snow; and, by two o'clock in the afternoon, the broad bend
near Creighton's mill was fairly alive with skaters. The girls in gay
caps and scarfs, the boys in sweaters and mackinaws of every
conceivable hue, with here and there a plump, matronly figure in a
plush coat or a tiny fellow in scarlet, made a picture of life and
brilliancy worthy of an artist's finest skill.
Tom Reynolds moved in and out among the happy throng, with swift, easy
strokes, his cap on the back of his curly head, and his brown eyes
shining with excitement. Now and again, he glanced down with
pardonable pride, at the brand new skates that twinkled beneath his
feet. "Jolly Ramblers," sure enough "Jolly Ramblers" they were! Ever
since Ralph Evans had remarked, with a tantalizing toss of his
handsome head, that "no game fellow would try to skate on anything but
'Jolly Ramblers,'" Tom had yearned, with an inexpressible longing, for
a pair of these wonderful skates. And now they were his and the ice
was fine and the Christmas sun was shining!
Tom was rounding the big bend for the fiftieth time, when he saw,
skimming gracefully toward him through the merry crowd, a tall boy in
a fur-trimmed coat, his handsome head proudly erect.
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