Dan Vinton returned to Yardley after the Christmas vacation on an afternoon of one of those bright, warm days which sometimes happen along in the middle of Winter. As the train rumbled over the bridge, Dan caught a fleeting glimpse of Long Island Sound sparkling in the sunlight and pricked out here and there with a white sail. On his way up the winding road to the school—he had the station carriage to himself save for the unobtrusive presence of a homesick Preparatory Class boy—he saw clean russet meadows aglow in the mellow light, and, farther inland and across the little river, Meeker’s Marsh a broad expanse of reeds and grass and rushes shading from green-gold to coppery red. So far, although it was the third of January, there had been no snow storm worthy of the name in the vicinity of Wissining, and, save that the trees were bare of leaves, one might have thought himself in Autumn. It was as though a careless, laughing October day had lost its place in the procession and now, after a two months’ truancy, had squirmed and crowded itself back into line again. Dan cast a glance toward the athletic field, half expecting to see the brown footballs hurtling up against the sky.
