Bob and Frank pushed out ahead of all the other passengers.  Roger was pushing out after them when the conductor laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t crowd, don’t crowd; plenty of time, young man.”

This expostulation came too late, for Roger in his impatience to get out, unheeding of what he was doing, caught one of his skates in the scarf of the crippled boy, who had been sitting next to him.  He gave his skate strap a rude pull, knocking the boy rather roughly, and stepping on a lady’s toes.

[Illustration:  “It wasn’t my fault, was it?”]

“Bother take it!” he exclaimed impatiently, and giving the scarf another jerk, ruder than before, he succeeded in disentangling it; then he rushed out, hurried over to the boys who awaited him on the pavement, where they stood stamping their feet and whistling.  Roger made no reply to the crippled boy, who said to him gently:—­

“It wasn’t my fault, was it?”

“That hunchback caught his scarf in my skate.  I thought it never would come out,” he exclaimed.  “It’s kept me all this time!”

“Hush, Roger,” interrupted Frank in a low tone of voice.

The boy was just behind them; he had evidently heard what had been said, for his pale face turned scarlet, and lingering behind to see which path the boys intended taking, he walked off in the opposite direction, and they soon lost sight of him.

Roger was hasty and impulsive, but his nature was kindly, after all; and when his skates were fairly on, the ice tried, and the first excitement of the pleasure over, he thought of his unfeeling speech, and the pale, sad face of the boy rose before him.

“Was it my fault?” The question rang in his ears.  Was it the boy’s fault that his legs were crooked, and his back misshapen and awkward?  Was it his fault that he must go through life, receiving pity or contempt from his more fortunate fellow-creatures, whose limbs were better formed than his own?

The more Roger thought, the ruder his treatment of the poor lad now seemed, and putting himself in the boy’s place, he felt that such words would have cut him to the quick.

“I say,” said Bob, who had been cutting his initials on a smooth, glassy spot of ice:  “I say, Roger, what makes you so glum?  Why, I declare, there’s the little hunchback sitting over there on the bank, looking at the skaters.”

Roger looked in that direction, and saw him sitting alone, his only enjoyment consisting in seeing without at all engaging in the pleasure of others.

“What can a poor fellow like that do with himself I wonder?” added Bob.  “I don’t suppose he can skate or do anything else without making a show of himself.”

“That’s so,” said Roger thoughtfully, wondering how he could make up for his rudeness, or take back his own words.  He concluded to let it all pass for this time.  In future he would be more careful, and less hasty in speaking; for Roger did not have sufficient manliness to go over to where the boy was sitting, and say frankly; “I beg your pardon for my rudeness.”