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“You’re not playing any more?” asked the latter, as the shrill sound of a whistle from around the shoulder of the hill told him that the game was still on.

“No. Sidell’s got my place for this half. There’s a half-dozen of us all trying for a wing position on the Second, and Steve has his hands full giving us each a show.” He chuckled softly. “He forgot in the first half and let me play right through.”

“Hockey must be good fun,” mused Joe, secretly trying to copy his companion’s ease of motion.

“Bully. I wish I could play better and make the First.”

“I thought you did finely when you skated down and tried that shot,” said Joe.

“Mostly luck. Besides, tries don’t count; it’s only goals. And I ought to have got that in that time. It was up to me to skate past and push it in instead of whanging it. You can’t get the puck past Sam Craig that way. I knew it, too, only I thought I’d be smart. Let’s go up and watch them. Mind?”

“No, I’d like to,” replied Joe.

They joined the line of spectators along the side of the supposititious rink, being frequently obliged to flee before the slashing sticks or plunging forms of the players, and witnessed the final decisive triumph of the First Team by a score of seven goals to two. A few of the players remained to practise further, but most of them, accompanied by a full half of their audience, crossed a field to where, a quarter of a mile distant, a blue-sided trolley-car was waiting outside the board fence of the Fair Grounds to start its noon journey townwards. Joe found himself still in the company of Strobe, and was well satisfied, since there was something about the other chap that drew him. They were chatting quite intimately by the time the car was reached, and when they got out at Main Street Strobe lengthened his own journey homeward by several blocks in order to pursue the new acquaintanceship.