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Joe shook his head ruefully. “Pretty rotten last year. I used to hit pretty well when I was on the grammar school team, but I guess the pitching was awfully soft. I suppose you begin practice indoors some time next month?”

“About the middle. You’ll have a chance to get your batting-eye. We usually put the fellows through a good deal of bunting work in the cage. It seems to help a lot when they get outdoors. There’s the pond over there. Let’s cut across here; it’s shorter.”

The pond was some three acres in extent, and was long and narrow, curving back around the shoulder of a hill and looking at first glance like a river. As Joe and his guide climbed a rail-fence and crossed a snow-covered meadow, following a well-trodden track, the pond proved to be well populated. Skaters were gliding and turning, many armed with hockey-sticks, and at the nearer end of the ice two sets of goal-posts were in place. Some of the hockey players had already thrown aside their coats and were warming up, their blue-stockinged legs twinkling over the glassy surface.