One evening that it looked particularly inviting to me, was when Ned
and the two girls and I were returning with our skates from an
afternoon spent on Beekman's pond. Large flakes were falling softly on
snow already laid. Darkness had caught up with us on the way home, and
when we came in sight of the cheery light enframing the Faringfields'
wide front door, and showing also from the windows at one side, I was
not sorry I was to eat supper with them that evening, my mother having
gone sleighing to visit the Murrays at Incledon, with whom she was to
pass the night. As we neared the door, tired and hungry, whom should
we see coming toward it from the other direction but Philip Winwood.
He had worked over the usual time at the warehouse. Before the girls
or I could exchange halloes with Phil, we were all startled to hear
Ned call out to him, in a tone even more imperious than the words:
"Here, you, come and take my skates, and carry them in, and tell
mother I've stopped at Jack Van Cortlandt's house a minute."
And he stood waiting for Phil to do his bidding. The rest of us
halted, also; while Phil stopped where he was, looking as if he could
not have heard aright.
"Come, are you deaf?" cried Ned, impatiently. "Do as you're bid, and
be quick about it."
Now, of course, there was nothing wrong in merely asking a comrade, as
one does ask a comrade such things, to carry in one's skates while one
stopped on the way.
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