Once in Paris he had tried, had had a harmless accident and, willingly yielding to his mother's fears, had tried no more.
Late in the afternoon, Leila, with her long wake of flying hair, burst into the Squire's den.

"What the deuce is the matter ?" asked Penhallow.
"Oh! Uncle Jim, he can skate like--like a witch.

I couldn't keep near him.

He skated an 'L' for my name.

Uncle Jim, he's a fraud." Penhallow knew now why the boy had grinned at him.