"Heavens!" said Turkey to himself as he flashed over the ice. "That settles it. Sally--Sally! A nice pickle I'm in! Wonder if she sports spectacles and old-fashioned frocks. A nice pickle--I'll be the laughing stock of the whole school. Guess I won't have much trouble recognising Beauty's sister. Whew! That comes from having a kind heart!" With these and similar pleasant reflections he threaded his way among the crowd of skaters until at length he perceived Hickey skimming over the ice, stealing the puck from a bunch of scrambling players, until his progress checked, and the puck vanishing into a distant mêlée, he came to a stop for breath. Turkey, profiting by the occasion, descended on his victim. "Whoa there, Hickey!" "Whoa it is!" "How's your dance-card?" "A dazzling galaxy of beauty, a symposium of grace, a feast of----" "Got anything left? I have a wonder for you if you have." "Sure; twelfth regular and sixth extra--but the duchess will be awfully cut up." "Twelfth and sixth," said Turkey, with a nod; "that's a go." "Who's the heart-smasher?" asked Hickey, with an eye on the approaching puck. "A wonder, Hickey; a screamer. There'll be nothing to it. Ta, ta! Much obliged." "What's her name?" "Sawtelle--some distant relative of the Beauty's, I believe. I'm filling out her card. Obliged for the dance. Ta, ta!" "Hold up!" said Hickey, quickly. "Hold up! Jiminy! I almost forgot--why, I do believe I went and promised those two to Hasbrouck. Isn't that a shame! Sorry. To think of my forgetting that! Try to give you some other. Confound it! I have no luck." With the most mournful look in the world he waved his hand and sped ostentatiously toward the bunch of players. "Hickey's on to me," thought Turkey as he watched him disengage himself from the crowd and skate off with Sawtelle; "no hope in that quarter." Finally, after an hour's persistent work, during which he pleaded and argued, commanded and threatened, he succeeded in filling exactly six of the necessary twenty-four dances. Indeed, he would have had no difficulty in completing the card if he could have passed over that fatal name. But each time, just as he was congratulating himself on another conquest, his victim would ask, "By the way, what name shall I put down?" "Oh--er--Miss Sawtelle," he would answer nonchalantly; "a distant relative of the Beauty--though nothing like him--ha! ha!" Then each would suddenly remember that the dances in question were already half-promised,--a sort of an understanding; but of course he would have to look it up,--but of course, if he found they were free, why, then of course, he wanted, above all things in the world, to dance with Miss Sawtelle.