fare, and Skookum having jotted down the usual morning poetic inspiration on the sublimity of the situation, the army, led by Father, marched full breast upon the curling rink building.  There were no knights at the gate to defend the castle, nor did the band meet them at the portal—­neither did the Vancouver curling club.  Their arrival, strange to say, created no commotion; they did not seem to have been anticipated.  Things went along as though nothing extraordinary had taken place.

The appearances at the rink, however, were intoxicating, which largely made up for the invisibility of the receiving committee.  The rink was somewhat larger than the town hall at Ashcroft, and the great, high, arched, glass ceiling was studded with electric lights like stars in the heavens.  Extensive rows of seats for spectators encircled the entire room, and in the centre, the arena was one clear, smooth sheet of hard, white ice.  Several games were in progress, and they saw their old friend “Tam” playing with his usual Scotch luck and winning for all he was worth.

Ashcroft selected the ice upon which the first blood was to be sprinkled.  The battle began on schedule time, and as they had anticipated, they won without a single casualty.  As a result of this “clean up,” a private conference was held that night by the Vancouver and other clubs behind closed doors, at which it was moved, and seconded, and adopted, that Ashcroft was a dangerous element in their midst, and that drastic measures must be set in motion at once to arrest such phenomenal accomplishments or the bonspiel would be lost.  All unconscious of the conspiracy against them, Ashcroft spent the afternoon riding up and down the moving stairs at Spencer’s, led by the “Deak,” who had had previous practice at this amusement.  Curling to them was as easy as this stairway, and as simple as eating a meal if you cut out the tipping of the waiter.  That night they took in a show which was a “hum dinger,” and should have endured a life-time.  What a sweet life it was; nothing to do but live, and laugh, and curl, and win; if it would only continue indefinitely without having to worry about the financing of it!  Napoleon “had nothing” on Father, and he felt that he could even “put it over” on the local star.  But something happened the next day.  Whether it was the private conference, or the moving stairs, or the Pantages, or whether it was that Ashcroft became more careless with success, and Vancouver more careful with defeat, will never be known.  They pierced no more bull’s eyes—­and sometimes they missed the entire target.  They had every qualification essential to the successful curler but talent.  They had the rocks, the brooms, the ribbons, the sweaters—­they even had the will.  It is strange with all those requisites that they could not win.

The retreat from Moscow took place three days later, and they went straggling over the Alps in one long string.  As though the mortification of defeat was not enough, a huge joke was prepared for them by the reception committee of the local curling club, and lemons have been at a premium in Ashcroft ever since.