Deacon Winslow was seen in town more frequently than usual, he leaving the work to the charge of his assistant for an hour or so at a time.  He always carried a big basket in his wagon or sleigh; and those who knew his warm heart could easily understand that his visits were wholly at homes where there was none too much in the way of comforts and food.

During the earlier days of the week the talk was pretty much of winter sports.  Ice hockey occupied a prominent place in the conversations that were carried on wherever three or more Scranton High fellows clustered, to kick their heels on the pavement, or sun themselves while perched on the top of the campus fence that would go down in history as the peer of the famous one at Yale.

During afternoons the hockey players gathered at the park, and each day saw them engaging in some sort of practice game,—­their opponents being such fellows as could be gathered together to constitute a fair Seven.

Hugh seemed satisfied with the progress made, and Mr. Leonard, too, looked as if he felt well repaid for the trouble he was taking showing them certain clever moves that might reward them in a fiercely contested match.

Meanwhile the mystery concerning that robbery at Paul Kramer’s Emporium had not yet been wholly solved.  Leon Disney still languished in the lock-up at Police Headquarters, his folks having been unable to secure bail for him.  They could not raise the amount themselves, and somehow there seemed to be no person in the whole community philanthropical enough to take chances with Leon, who was reckoned an exceedingly slippery individual, who would most likely run away before his trial came off, leaving his bondsman to “hold the bag,” as the boys called it.

He was just as stubborn as ever in his denial of complicity in the robbery.  Leon doubtless believed that a lie well stuck to was bound to raise up friends.  There are always well disposed people whose sympathies are apt to be aroused when they hear of a case like this.

But Leon was not being held on circumstantial evidence.  He had been caught “with the goods on him.”  All that loot hidden under the old barn on his place was positive proof of his guilt.  Still he held out, and declared himself the victim of some base plot calculated to ruin his reputation; which was rather a queer thing for Leon to say, since the only reputation he had in Scranton was for badness.

Another thing was that he still declined to betray his pal, for everyone felt positive he had had company when foraging through the cases in Paul Kramer’s establishment, taking such things as naturally appeal to a boy’s heart—­candy, cigarettes, revolvers and sporting goods.

Chief Wambold suspected one boy from the start, after finding that the former chief offender in these lines could prove a positive alibi.  This was the third of the bad lot, Tip Slavin.

He had even gone to Tip’s humble home and made a thorough search, high and low, but without the least success.  If Tip were guilty he must have been smarter than his confederate, who had hidden his share of the plunder under the loose boards of the floor of his folks’ barn.