houted Peter, as he flung himself between them; "'t was
the prettiest race of the season, was it not, Kitty? Do, do try a game
with the rest of us, and I'll be your hurlie myself."
A hurlie, be it known, was a small boy or man who, in the fashion of a
ball-game of the day, propelled the balls along the icy surface of the
pond with a long, sharp-pointed stick, and the race was accorded to
whoever first caught the ball,--often a trial of both speed and
endurance when the course was a long one.
"Are you deserting me, Peter?" put in Kitty playfully; "the other
hurlies are busy with the De Lancey party; we must have two or three at
least."
Yorke moved a step forward; his first impulse was to offer his services
to Kitty, as he had done before, but some fine instinct warned him not
to jeopardize his half-reconciliation with Betty, and before he could
speak, Philip Livingston whistled to a tall, slight lad who was standing
looking at them from the bank close at hand. In response the lad ran
down, leaped on the ice, and said pleasantly,--
"Your pleasure, sir. Did you call me?"
"Can you drive a ball for me?" asked Philip; "if so, I'll promise you a
shilling for an hour of your time."
"Indeed I will," said the boy; "but let me first go tell Jim Bates,
there, who maybe will be returning to Paulus Hook, and I'll just bid him
wait for me over yonder in the tan-yard until you gentlefolks have had
your game."
Off darted the new recruit, and was seen to join a man wearing the wide
hat and somewhat greasy garb of a fisherman, who, after a few words,
nodded assent, and with somewhat slouching gait proceeded leisurely
across the bridge in the direction of the tan-yard referred to. Amid
much laughter the game began; some other acquaintances came down the
bank and joined them, and presently Betty found herself darting over the
ice hither and thither, following Peter's purposely erratic course, and
pursuing the ball, determined this time to outdo Yorke, who followed her
every motion, and whom she again began to tease and laugh at. But to
Yorke anything was better than her scorn or displeasure, and when, by a
lucky stroke and a quick turn of her skates, Betty bent down and
captured the elusive ball, he was the first to raise a shout of
triumph, in which the merry party joined with the heartiness of
good-fellowship and breeding.
It was growing dark and cold as Betty climbed up the bank and seated
herself on a pile of boards, w
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