I told him I considered the expression extremely misleading, but he paid no attention, being very excited about the morrow’s game. When we awoke the next day, though, it looked as if there would be no game, for the weather had grown very mild over night, the sun was shining warmly and water was running or dripping everywhere. Lamar gave one horrified look from the window and, throwing a few clothes on, hastened to the rink. When he returned he was much upset. The ice, he said, was melting fast and there was already a film of water over it. The game was scheduled for three o’clock, and if the ice kept on melting there wouldn’t be any left by that time, and without ice there could be no game, and if there was no game――Lamar choked up and could get no further. I really felt awfully sorry for him, even if it was perfectly absurd to magnify a mere contest of physical force and skill to such proportions. Fortunately, the sun went under later and, while it was still mild and muggy, it seemed that there might possibly be enough ice left in the afternoon to play on. I was very glad, for Lamar’s sake, and so was Pug. Pug, I fear, had become somewhat obsessed by hockey. I had found a blue paper-covered book about the game under a pillow on his window-seat one day, and while he declared that it belonged to Swanson, I wasn’t fooled. About noon MacLean and the others viewed the rink and the manager got the Munson folks on the wire and told them that the ice wasn’t fit to play on and that if Munson wanted to postpone the game――but Munson didn’t. They thought we were trying to avoid playing it, probably, and said they’d be over as planned and that they guessed a postponement wouldn’t be wise, because the weather might get worse instead of better. So the game was played, and Pug and I went. We were rather late, because Pug had mislaid one of his galoshes, but he found it finally, under Swanson’s bed, and we got to the rink to find that it was lined two and three deep all around the boards. We found a place to squeeze in behind the Holman’s bench, though, and by stretching our necks we could see fairly well. We were glad afterwards that we hadn’t got close to the barrier, because every time a player swiped at the puck or turned short on his skates he sent a shower of slush and water over the nearer spectators.