noon
He would swagger ; he would talk loud ; his big , beautiful voice would challenge attention , create an audience . He would have some impossible , splendid tale to tell . Pete sat up straighter in his chair , gingerly rearranging the ankle , and lifted his blue and haunted eyes -- the eyes of the North -- to the window . The dazzle of noon had faded to a glow . The short winter day was nearly done . There would be a long violet twilight , and then , the blaze of stars . But for his aching ankle Pete would be sliding out on soundless skis , now poised for breathless flight down some long slope , now leaping fallen trees or buried ditches .