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.