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“No, thanks. Not today, anyway. Maybe another time——”

“Don’t promise anything,” interrupted Sam. “There’s a good store up the street. Shall we start along?”

“I’m all ready. Thanks for putting that lacing in, Pollard.”

“Pollock is the name,” said Tom. “Think of a fish.”

“A fish?” asked Joe vaguely.

“Yes. A pollock’s a fish, you know.”

“And a mighty ugly, mean-looking fish, too,” said Sam with one of his infrequent smiles. “Call him what you like, Faulkner. Anything’s good enough for him. Where’s that stick of mine, Tom?”

“Just where you left it, on top of the case up there. Wish I could go along with you chaps. I haven’t seen you crack the ice this Winter, Sam.”

“I’m getting so I can fall soft now.” He picked a hockey-stick, to which were attached boots, skates and leg-pads, from the showcase and moved toward the door. “See you later, Tom. Come on, Faulkner.”

Joe nodded to Tom Pollock and followed his new acquaintance outside.

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“Walk or ride?” asked Sam, when they were on the sidewalk.