that now he had the final chance to retrieve the day and wrest victory from defeat.  He was far, far from the basket, but he did not dare to risk the precious moment in dribbling or passing the ball.  The only hope lay in one perfect throw.  He held the ball in his hands high over his head, and bent far back.  He straightened himself like a bow when the arrow of the Indian leaves its side.  He gave a spring into the air, and launched the ball at the little basket.  It soared on an arc as beautiful as a rainbow’s.  It landed full in the basket.

But the force of the blow was so great that the ball choggled about and bounded out upon the rim.  There it halted tantalizingly, rolled around the edge of the basket, trembled as if hesitating whether to give victory to the Palatines or the Kingstons.

After what seemed an age of this dallying, it slowly dropped—­

To the floor.

A deep, deep sigh came from the lips of all, even the Palatines.  And down into the hearts of the Twins there went a solemn pain.  They had lost the game—­that was bad enough; but they knew that they deserved to lose it, that their own misplays had brought their own punishment.  But they bore their ordeal pluckily, and when, the next week, they met another team, they played a clean, swift game that won them stainless laurels.

XIV

Snow-time set Quiz to wondering what he could do to occupy his spare moments; for the drifts were too deep for him to continue his beloved pastime of bicycling, and he had to put his wheel out of commission.  So he went nosing about, trying a little of everything, and being satisfied with nothing.

The Academy hockey team, of which Jumbo was the leader, was working out a fine game and making its prowess felt among the rival teams of the Tri-State Interscholastic League.  But hockey did not interest Quiz; for though he could almost sleep on a bicycle without falling over, when he put on a pair of skates you might have thought that he was trying to turn somersaults or describe interrogation-points in the air.

It was a little cold for rowing,—­though Quiz pulled a very decent oar,—­and the shell would hardly go through the ice at an interesting speed.  Indoor work in the gymnasium was also too slow for Quiz, and he was asking every one what pastime there was to interest a young man who required speed in anything that was to hold his attention.

At length he bethought him of a sport he had seen practised during a visit he paid once to some relatives in Minnesota, where the many Norwegian immigrants practised the art of running upon the skies.  At first sight this statement looks as if it might have come out of the adventures of that trustworthy historian, Baron Muenchhaeusen.  But the skies you are thinking of are not the skies I mean.