The Scene.– The boat-house landing and the river thereabouts.

The Time.– Four-thirty of the following Saturday afternoon.

Characters.– Dick, Trevor, Carl, Stewart, an ice-yacht, chorus of boys on skates.

Chorus: “Heave-o! Now, all together! Heave!”

Carl: “Hang the thing, anyhow! What’s the matter with it?”

Dick: “Well, since you know all about the art of ice-sailing, it strikes me that you ought to be able to raise a little old pillow-sham of a sail like that!”

Trevor: “Let’s pull on this rope and see what happens.”

Chorus: “How’d you like to be the ice-yachtsmen?”

Carl: “That’s the rope! Take hold here, fellows!”

Chorus: “Everybody shove!”

Carl: “There she goes! Make a hitch there, Dick! Jump on, quick! Whoa!”

Chorus: “A-ah!”

The boat catches the wind, starts suddenly up-stream, as suddenly changes its mind, veers about, rams the landing, backs off, charges a group of boys on skates, and then stands motionless with its head into the wind and laughs so that its sail flaps.

It is now discovered that there is room on the yacht for but three fellows at the most, and every one save Carl begs to be allowed to sacrifice his pleasure and remain at home. The choice falls to Stewart, and he joins the chorus with a countenance eloquent of relief. Carl, Dick, and Trevor huddle together on the cockpit, and a portion of the chorus shoves the yacht’s head about. The sail fills, and the yacht glides off up-stream in a strong breeze, to the jeers and biting sarcasms of the chorus, many of whom pretend to weep agonizedly into their handkerchiefs.

The Sleet had been delivered and paid for the preceding Wednesday. She was an old-style boat with a length of sixteen feet and a sail area altogether too small for her size. A new coat of brilliant – and as yet but partly dried – crimson paint hid a multitude of weak places. The cockpit, upholstered with a piece of faded red carpet, was barely large enough to allow the three boys to huddle onto it.

The boat-house and landing, Stewart, and the contemptuous chorus were soon left behind, and The Sleet gained momentum every second. Carl held the tiller, and Dick and Trevor held their breaths. The wind was straight abaft, but the cold made the boys huddle closely together to protect their faces. The academy buildings faded from sight in the gray afternoon haze, and the river stretched cold and bleak before them.

“How fast are we going?” asked Dick.

“I don’t know; pretty well, I guess,” answered Carl. “Fine, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” replied Dick, doubtfully. “Only I don’t think we ought to go far away, you know; eh, Trevor?”

“Oh, let her rip. What’s the difference whether we get killed here or farther up? Pull open the throttle, Carl!”

“Look out for your heads, then; I’m going to swing her across to the other side.”

Carl moved the tiller to starboard, and the yacht tacked toward the farther shore at a truly alarming speed.

“She’s going awful fast, Carl,” gasped Dick.

“Pshaw! this is nothing. If there was only a decent wind – ”

“Wow, Carl, she’s keeling over!” yelled Trevor.

The starboard runner was a whole foot above the ice. The sensation was distinctly unpleasant, and even Carl seemed not to relish it.

“Let’s see,” he muttered. “Oh, yes.” He moved the tiller cautiously, and the flighty runner settled down upon the surface once more.

“That’s better,” gasped Dick. “Let’s turn here and go back, fellows,” he suggested with a fine semblance of carelessness. Carl grinned.

“Dick’s scared silly, Trevor,” he shouted.

“Well, so’m I,” answered Trevor. “And so are you, only you won’t let on. The bally thing goes so fast that it makes you feel funny inside you. But it is fun, Carl. Look out for the bank!”

Over went the tiller again, and the yacht started on the starboard tack. The hills on either side were flying past, and now and then a cluster of houses were seen dimly for an instant, and then was lost to sight.

“What’s that ahead there?” asked Dick. Carl raised his eyes and followed the other’s gaze.

“Ice-yacht,” he answered. “Perhaps they’ll race us.”

“Perhaps they will,” muttered Trevor, “but if you go any faster when you race, I’ll get off the blooming thing and walk.”

“Bully boy!” cried Carl. “Feeling better, aren’t you?”

“Well, I fancy I’ve got some of my breath back, you know. But I don’t mind saying that I’d rather ride on a cyclone than this contrivance. And my feet are like snowballs!”

“So are mine,” echoed Dick. “And all the rest of me. But let’s ask ’em to race, Carl.”

The other yacht, which when first sighted had been a long distance up the river, was now but a short way ahead, and was almost motionless, nose into the wind, as though awaiting the arrival of The Sleet. While the latter boat was still an eighth of a mile distant a form sprang into view on the yacht ahead and a hand waved in challenge. Carl steadied himself on his knees and waved back.

“We’ll race you!” he bawled.

An answering gesture showed that he had been heard, and the figure disappeared. In another moment the two yachts were abreast, and the stranger swung about and took the wind. She had two persons aboard, a man and a woman, both so wrapped from the weather as to be scarcely distinguishable. She was a much larger boat than The Sleet, sloop-rigged, with immaculate white sails and without side-timbers. She wore no paint, but her woodwork was varnished until it shone. Altogether there was scarcely any comparison between the two yachts, so immeasurably superior was the sloop in every detail.

The Sleet meanwhile had gained an eighth of a mile, perhaps, ere the stranger had found the wind, but now the latter came booming after them at a spanking gait, her big sails as stiff as though frozen. Carl grinned.

“It’ll be a mighty short race, my boys. She can sail all around this little triangle. But we’ll give her a go, just the same.” He brought The Sleet closer to the wind, and then began a series of long tacks that sent the boat fairly flying over the ice. But the stranger was already at the same tactics, and ere a mile had passed was abreast of The Sleet, though at the other side of the river, and her crew were waving derisively across.

“Well, if we had as much sail as you have,” growled Carl, “we might be in your class; as it is, we aren’t. But The Sleet is a good goer, all the same.”

The other boat stood across into the middle of the river, and then, as though her former efforts had been but the merest dawdling, bounded away, and was soon but a small white speck far up the ice in the haze.

“Let’s turn back now,” suggested Dick. “It must be getting toward half-past five, and you must remember that we won’t be able to make as fast time going down the river as we have coming up.”

“All right, we’ll turn in a minute.”

And then Carl, whose knowledge of ice-yachting was derived from the hurried perusal of a library book on the subject, cudgeled his brains to recollect how to “go about.” Of course, he might lower the sail and then bring her around, but that would be a most clumsy, unsportsmanlike method, and so not to be seriously considered. Presumably, the thing to do was to luff.

“Stand by to luff!” he bawled. Dick and Trevor stared.

“Stand!” cried Trevor indignantly. “Why, I can’t stand, you idiot. It’s all I can do to hold on as it is!”

“Well, look out for the boom, then. I’m going to bring her about.”

“Who?” asked Trevor innocently. But he got no answer, and the next instant he had forgotten his question, for Carl had thrust the helm hard over without first ascertaining that the sheet was clear. It wasn’t. The result was startling. The wind struck the sail full, and the yacht swung violently to port, tilted almost onto her beam ends. Carl and Trevor went rapidly through space and brought up on the ice yards and yards away, happily uninjured save for minor bruises and scratches, and The Sleet, righting herself, bounded forward with Dick clutching desperately, dazedly, at the port runner-beam.

When the shock had come Dick, like the others, had been thrown from the cockpit, but, by good luck or bad, had encountered the end of the cross-timber, just over the runner, and had seized it and clung to it with no very clear idea as to what it was, and not greatly caring. And now, when he opened his eyes and gazed confusedly about, he found the yacht ringing merrily over the ice and, judging by the feeling, kicking up her heels in delight, and found himself wrapped convulsively about the beam with the wind whistling madly in his ears and blowing his hair helter-skelter, for in his flight through air his cap and he had parted company. He cast a look backward and thought that for an instant he could discern in the gathering darkness two figures. Near at hand the stays ran to the masthead, and he edged himself toward them until he could grasp one in his numbed fingers. Then he was able to gain the support of the mast, somewhat painfully, for he found that his shoulder ached horribly, and that his lip had been cut and was swelling to disconcerting size. By means of the boom, which was swinging agitatedly as though constantly meditating a veer to the other side, he reached the cockpit, and there, stretched once more at length, he studied the situation.

Apparently, there was no immediate danger; the yacht was heading fairly straight up the middle of the river, and although now and then the stern slid this way or that, she was behaving well. But the imperative thing was to stop. Dick tried to undo a rope that looked promising, but his fingers were numb and stiff, despite the woolen gloves that covered them, and refused to act. He peered ahead into the descending darkness. The shore to the left was getting rather too near for comfort, and he seized the tiller, and, half fearful of the result, swung it to the right, with the startling result that the yacht headed more directly toward the threatening shore. Desperately he moved the tiller to the left, and gave a sigh of relief as the boat’s nose swung toward midstream. Encouraged by his success he presently moved the helm back a little, and with the yacht’s head pointing a middle course, again tried to think of some means of bringing his unwelcome voyage to an end. He knew nothing, practically, of yachting on either water or ice, but he knew that if he could get the sail down the boat would eventually stop. Painfully he drew off a glove and sought his pocket-knife. It was not there. He tried all his pockets with the same disappointing result. Then he drew his glove back over his deadened hand, and thought desperately of jumping off and letting The Sleet look after herself. But the prospect of being dashed across the ice at the risk of a broken limb didn’t appeal to him; and besides, he felt in a measure responsible for the safe return of the confounded boat.

“Stand by the ship!” he muttered with an attempt at a grin.

The wind seemed now to be decreasing in force, but The Sleet still charged away into the gathering blackness with breathless speed. At a loss for any better solution, Dick struggled again at the rope, and it seemed that success was about to reward his efforts when there was a sudden jar, followed a second later by a strange sinking sensation, the sound of breaking ice, and then Dick felt the cockpit being lifted up and up, and ere he could grasp anything he was rolled over the edge and plunged downward into icy water.

CHAPTER XIV
DICK TELLS HIS STORY

When Carl and Trevor, bruised and breathless, found their feet and stared about them, The Sleet was already a whisking gray blot in the twilight. Trevor obeyed his first impulse and limping up the ice in the direction of the disappearing boat, called frantically: “Dick! Dick!” Then, realizing the absurdity of his chase after a thing that was probably reeling off half a mile every minute or so, he stopped and came dejectedly back to where Carl was silently rubbing a bruised thigh.

“Dick will be killed!” he cried hoarsely. “What shall we do?”

“Get back to the academy,” said Carl.

“What good will that do?”

“They can telegraph up the river and get some one to look for him. I wonder how far from Hillton we are?”

“I don’t know,” answered Trevor, “but let’s hurry. Which way shall we go?”

“Across the river to the railroad track. Maybe, Trevor, there’s a station between here and Hillton; there ought to be, eh?”

“I don’t know,” sorrowed his companion. “Do you think Dick might have dropped off after we saw him? Maybe, Carl, he’s lying up there on the ice somewhere.”

“I don’t believe so. I think Dick will hold on as long as he can. Perhaps he will manage to get back onto the boat; if he does he ought to be able to stop her; he knows enough to lower the sail, I guess. I dare say he’ll turn up all right before long. The best thing for us to do is to find a telegraph office as soon as we can. Come ahead.”

Somewhat comforted, Trevor limped along and the two gained the river bank and stumbled through the darkness to the railroad track. Down this they tramped, silent for the most part, with feet that had no feeling left in them, and with fingers that ached terribly. How far from the academy they were neither had any idea; perhaps ten miles, perhaps less. As for the time, that at least they knew, for Trevor managed to get his watch out and Carl supplied a match; the hands pointed to twenty minutes of six.

“We ought to be home by seven,” said Carl with attempted cheerfulness. Trevor groaned.

A quarter of an hour passed; a half. It was too dark to recognize anything save the lines of track, which had left the river some distance to the right. Suddenly a slight turn brought into view a cluster of lights, white and green.

“A station!” cried Trevor.

The two boys increased their gait and five minutes later passed a freight train on a siding, and found a little box of a station, ablaze with light, and oh, how warm! Around a great whitewashed stove in the middle of the waiting-room sat three men. Two had woolen caps on; the third was bareheaded, and him the boys rightly judged to be the station-master. Their story was quickly told, and a moment later the key at the telegraph desk was ticking off messages to stations up the line.

“You must have got thrown out at about Whitely Mills,” said one of the men at the stove. “The boat would have a clear track from there up to – I say, Gus,” he called suddenly to the man at the instrument, “they were cutting ice to-day at the houses just this side of Lorraine. That would be a bad part of the river to get onto in the dark. You’d better tell the fellow at Lorraine to send some one down there with a lantern; what d’ye think, Joe?”

The third man nodded his head. “Bad place; I noticed they were cutting pretty well out toward the channel.”

“All right,” said the station-master. And the instrument ticked on. Carl and Trevor sat by the stove and held their feet and hands to the grateful warmth. They were too tired, too dejected to talk. The engineer and conductor of the waiting freight eyed them curiously but kindly. Finally the latter asked:

“How you boys going to get to Hillton?”

“Walk,” answered Carl with a faint smile. “How far is it from here?”

“Twelve miles.”

The two lads looked at each other and groaned.

“Well, I don’t care so much, now that I’ve got thawed out a bit,” said Trevor. “How far do you think we have walked?”

“I guess it’s about three miles from Whitely here.”

“At that rate,” commented Carl dismally, “it will take us two hours longer to reach Hillton. And” – he glanced at the station clock – “it’s now twenty after six; say half-past eight.” The engineer and conductor were exchanging glances of amusement. Finally the conductor spoke again:

“Well, I guess we can fix it so as you won’t have to walk. The through freight will be here in seven minutes, and I guess they’ll give you a lift. If they don’t you can ride down with us, although we won’t get there much before seven. We’re slow but sure, we are; twenty-eight cars of coal and a caboose.”

The boys brightened and thanked the railroad men fervently. And then the station-master left the telegraph instrument and came out into the waiting-room.

“It’s all right. I’ve put ’em on as far north as Yorkvale, and if he’s still on the yacht they’ll find him, I guess.” He turned to the conductor and added in lower tones: “Gregson, at Lorraine, says he’ll see that a party goes down right away; says he doesn’t believe a yacht could pass there to-night, as the river hasn’t had time to freeze much since they quit cutting at about four.”

The conductor nodded. From far off came the long, shrill blast of a locomotive whistle, and the men drew on their coats, and presently, followed closely by Carl and Trevor, left the station.

There was a flood of yellow light on the rails to the north, and the next instant the fast freight thundered by them for half its length, the brake shoes rasping deafeningly against the wheels. The matter was soon arranged, and Trevor and Carl found themselves sitting in the strange little caboose about a tiny stove that was almost red-hot, and telling their story to two of the train crew. And then, almost before they knew that they had got well started, the train slowed down, and they were tumbled out into the snow at the Hillton crossing, and, shouting their thanks after the scurrying car as it romped off again into the darkness, they took up the last stage of their journey. But now, aside from the anxiety they felt as to Dick’s fate, they were fairly comfortable and contented; and the prospect of supper – for it seemed to them that never before in the history of the world had two persons been so hungry – allowed them to view their coming interview with the principal with something approaching equanimity.

Half an hour later Professor Beck was speeding northward in a buggy behind the fastest horse in Watson’s stables, and Trevor and Carl, subdued and anxious, were eating as though their lives depended upon it in the deserted dining-hall. And afterward Trevor donned his ridiculous red dressing-gown and sat in front of the study fire for hours, listening anxiously for sounds on the stairs that would tell of Dick’s safe return. Sleep, despite his best endeavors, besieged him constantly, and now and then he dropped off for a minute or two, only to reawake with a start and rub his smarting eyes confusedly.

“I wish Muggins was here,” he sighed. “It wouldn’t be so lonely.” Then the clock gathered its hands together at the figure XII, and Trevor crept sleepily but protestingly to bed and dropped into heavy slumber the moment his head touched the pillow.

Once – it seemed as though it must be almost daylight – there were disturbing sounds in the bedroom, and Trevor turned over with a groan, and, even while he was asking himself what the noise meant, went off to slumber again. When he awoke in the morning, and the happenings of the previous evening rushed back to memory, he sat up suddenly with a wild, anxious look toward the neighboring bed, and a deep sigh of relief and joy escaped him. For Dick’s tumbled head lay on the pillow, and Dick’s hearty snores made music in his ears.

In the afternoon the crew of The Sleet, including Stewart, were gathered about the hearth in Number 16, listening breathlessly to Dick’s narrative.

“My, but that water was cold!” Dick was saying. “And deep, too. It seemed as though I never would stop going down. You see, I was so surprised that I just let myself go, and never thought of struggling for a long while. When I did, it took me so long to reach the surface again that I hadn’t any breath left in my body. I got hold of the edge of the ice and tried to pull myself out, but it was only about half an inch thick, I guess, and broke right off every time, and down I’d go again, over my head, maybe. Finally I stopped that and managed to keep my head out. It was as dark as Egypt by that time, but after awhile I caught sight of The Sleet just a few yards away, sticking up into the air like a big triangle. It was on its side with one runner ’way under the water. Farther off I could make out three black hulks of things that I concluded were ice-houses, and Professor Beck says that’s what they were. Of course, when I saw the yacht I knew that I was all right; all I had to do was to keep on breaking the ice until I reached it. But I was so plaguy cold, and my teeth were chattering so, and my clothing was so heavy that it wasn’t very easy after all. But after a while I found something that wasn’t ice; it was the sail, and it was lying flat over the water and broken ice. It sagged down with me after I managed to get onto it, but held me all right, and I crawled along it until I reached the – the – what do you call it, Carl?”

“Boom?”

“Yes, boom. And then I got onto the mast and leaned against a plank – the cross-plank, it was – and I was all right, except that I was almost dead with the cold, and was afraid I’d freeze to death. So I kept stamping around and throwing my arms about as well as I could without falling into the water again, and after a while I got comparatively warmed up. Then – I suppose I’d been there fifteen or twenty minutes – I began to wonder if I couldn’t get off. You see, I argued that the yacht would have broken through just as soon as the ice became thin, and so it seemed to me that there must be thick ice just back of the boat. But, try as I might, I couldn’t for the life of me decide which was the back of the silly thing and which the front. And I was afraid that I’d go plumping into that beastly cold water again. But after a while I got up my pluck and went to feeling about, letting myself down here and there, and crawling around. But every time I’d try to stand on the ice, down I’d go; and so finally I gave it up. But the climbing about kept me warmed up after a fashion; I dare say I was as warm as a fellow could be with his clothes sopping wet where they weren’t frozen stiff. So I crawled back to the mast again and set out to holler.

“I wish you could have heard me! I yelled in forty different styles. And when I couldn’t think of anything else I cheered; cheered for Hilton, cheered for The Sleet, cheered for the ice-houses, and incidentally, my young friends, cheered myself. And then my voice and my breath gave out, and I stood still a while and kicked my frozen feet against the plank and thought about fires and cups of hot coffee and things to eat until I was nearly crazy. And then I saw some lights flickering away off in the distance to the right of the ice-houses, and began yelling again. And that’s about all. There were three fellows with lanterns and they got a piece of plank or something and took me off. And what do you think?” he asked disgustedly. “There was thick ice, half a foot thick, within three feet of me all the time!

“A man who said he was the station-master took me up to a house, and they gave me some blankets and things and dried my clothes and poured hot coffee and brandy stuff into me, and I went to sleep for a while in front of a big round stove; and was never so happy in my life. Afterward I ate some supper; my, fellows, but it was good! And then, in about an hour or so, Professor Beck popped in and said that he didn’t want to hurry me, but that if I’d quite finished bathing we’d go home. The station fellow – I believe I’ve forgotten his name – said he’d attend to having the ice-yacht hauled out for us, and would look after it until we sent for it.”

“Do you think it’s much broken up?” asked Carl.

“I don’t know,” replied Dick vigorously, “and what’s more, I don’t care a continental!”

The Sleet, to anticipate a trifle, went back to its former owner at a loss to the shareholders of six dollars, and a faculty edict was solemnly published prohibiting forevermore at Hillton Academy the fascinating and exhilarating sport of ice-yachting.