Excerpt
CHAPTER I REALLY A GREAT PLAN, BUT—— S Hen Dutcher came up to a group of boys on the ice, and slowed down his speed, he stuck the point of his right skate in the ice to bring himself to a full stop.
"Huh! You fellows think you're some smart on fancy skating, don't you?" he demanded rather scornfully.
"No," replied Dave Darrin shortly.
"You been showing off a lot, then."
"Hen," grimaced Dave, "I'm afraid you're going to miss your calling in life."
"Didn't know I had any," grunted Hen.
"Yes, you have; one of your own choosing, too."
"What is it?" asked Hen curiously.
"You're a walking anvil chorus."
"An anvil chorus?" repeated Hen Dutcher, the puzzled expression deepening in his face.
"Yes; wherever you go the fellows are sure to hear the sounds of 'hammering' and 'knocking.'"
A score of boys grinned, a dozen laughed outright. But Hen wasn't bright enough to see the point.
"What's an anvil got to do with it all?" demanded Hen in a puzzled tone. "An anvil belongs in a blacksmith shop."
"And that's where you ought to go, to do all your 'hammering' and 'knocking,'" explained Dave, as he skated slowly away.
"Huh! You think you're smart!" growled Hen, who still couldn't see why the other fellows had laughed.
"Hen," remarked Dick Prescott, "I'm afraid you're not up to concert pitch."
"Concert pitch?" repeated the dense one. "No, I know I'm not. Did I ever make any claim to being musical?"
"You see," hinted Greg Holmes, "the trouble with the Dutcher kid is that he's all ivory, from his collar-button up."
Another laugh greeted this assertion, but Hen only glared stupidly.
"Ivory is all white, anyway," Hen muttered. "So am I."
He swelled out his chest, did one or two fancy little things on skates, and tried to look important. But none of the other fellows in the group on the ice seemed inclined to take young Dutcher at his own valuation.
Hen Dutcher was a peculiar chap, at any rate. His worst fault, probably—but one that led to other faults—was his egotism. He was always thinking about himself and his own puny little interests. For the life of him, Hen couldn't understand why he wasn't popular with other fellows. He sometimes realized that he wasn't, but charged the fact up to the other fellows being "too stuck on themselves, or on those 'boobs,' Dick Prescott and Dave Darrin."
"Let's run Hen ashore and rub his face in the snow!" proposed one boy gleefully.
"You dassent!" flared up Hen. But half a dozen boys uttered a whoop and skated toward him. Hen wobbled on his skates an instant, then turned, intent on escape.
"Oh, say, fellows," called Dick, "don't be all the time picking on poor old Hen."
"We'll just wash his face," shouted back one of the pursuers.
Hen knew they meant it, and he was traveling down the ice, now, under full steam.
"Come on, fellows," called Dick, to Greg and to Tom Reade. "We don't want to see Hen abused."
"Why does he get so fresh, then?" demanded Greg, but he started, as did Tom. Dick & Co. were all fleet skaters. They surged to the front of the pursuers, who took it for granted that Dick and his friends were going to aid them, and therefore set up a shout of joy....