THE RACE
The winter, which dealt so severely with the great melancholy house
standing lonely on the shore of Lake Erie, was proving a very cheerful
season for the lads of Truesdell. Dick Somers, by reason of his natural
aptitude for making friends, had quickly found a place in high school
activities. A certain proficiency with the tenor-banjo had won him
membership in a jazzy school orchestra, in which organization were some
of his closest friends, including Ned Blake, Jim Tapley, Wat Sanford,
Dave Wilbur and, jazziest of all, Charlie Rogers, who, in the words of
Tommy Beals, “sure did wail a mean saxophone.”
Cold weather had set in much earlier than usual, and before school had
closed for the Christmas holidays, the lake was frozen for a width of
two miles along its southern shore. Skates were hastily resurrected from
dusty attic nooks and exciting games of hockey were of daily occurrence.
As the strip of ice increased in width, a few ice-boats made their
appearance, skimming along shore like great white gulls.
“When are you going to get out the old _Frost King_, Ned?” asked Tommy
Beals, as he leaned on his hockey stick to watch the speeding boats.
“We’ll have her out the minute the ice gets strong enough,” declared
Ned, “but you know she weighs a lot more than any of those boats you’re
looking at.”
“Have you got an ice-boat, Ned?” asked Dick, eagerly.
“I’ll say he has,” boasted Tommy, “about the fastest one on the lake,
too. We keep it stored in my barn. Come on, Ned,” he continued
coaxingly, “it’s getting colder every minute and by tomorrow the ice
will be six inches thick, _easy_. Let’s get the boat out so’s to be
ready.”
“All right, Fatty,” replied Ned, “get some of the crowd to help and
we’ll start now.”
As most of my readers know, an ice-yacht is built of two timbers or
heavy planks arranged in the form of a big letter T. A steel-shod shoe,
not unlike a big wooden skate or sled-runner, is bolted firmly to each
end of the cross-plank; while a similar shoe, equipped with an iron post
and tiller, supports the stern and acts as a rudder. The _Frost King_
was a powerful boat, carrying a huge main-sail and also a big jib which
was rigged on a long bowsprit that projected far forward.
All the remainder of the day and until noon of the next, the boys were
hard at work hauling the boat from her storage in the Beals barn and
getting her ready for the ice. Charlie Rogers, Jim Tapley and Wat
Sanford had responded to Tommy’s call for assistance, and Dave Wilbur
got around in time to help in hoisting the heavy mast and setting up the
wire rigging that held it in place.
“Gee, fellows!” chattered Dick Somers, as he threshed his arms to
restore the circulation in fingers benumbed by his rather clumsy
attempts at handling the frozen rigging. “I guess a Hottentot knows more
about an ice-boat than I do! I can’t make head nor tail of this tangle
of rope!”
In spite of inexperience, however, Dick did his level best,
disentangling the stiffened ropes and pulling and hauling on hoist or
clew-line with unfailing good nature. Over all, Ned Blake kept a
watchful eye, setting up and testing each bolt and stay, mindful of his
responsibility for the safety of both boat and crew. At last all was
ready and with a steady breeze filling her sails, the _Frost King_ shot
out from the shelter of the docks and went careening along shore at a
speed that few of her competitors could equal.
“_Zowie!_” gasped Dick as the boat at length rounded into the wind and
stopped. “This thing must have been going a mile a minute!”
“Easily that much,” laughed Ned. “She’ll do better than that in a stiff
breeze.”
At almost any time during the week of Christmas vacation, the _Frost
King_ might have been seen skimming swiftly over the ice with as many
boys on board as she could carry. To Dick Somers, this novel sport was a
source of never-ending delight, and seldom did the ice-boat leave port
without including him among her crew.
One afternoon as Ned, Tommy, and Dick stepped from the boat after an
exciting spin, they saw a man emerge from the shelter of a lumber pile
on the dock and come toward them. He was muffled in a heavy fur coat,
and a cap of the same material, pulled low upon his forehead,
effectively concealed his features. In one gloved hand he carried a big
valise, which, from the way he handled it, was evidently of considerable
weight.
“I want to get to Cleveland as quick as I can,” announced the stranger
in a voice which was muffled to a harsh growl by the thickness of his
fur collar.
“There’s a train leaving in half an hour,” replied Ned, with a glance at
his watch. “The station is only a few steps beyond the dock.”
The stranger shook his head. “That’s a slow local,” he said impatiently.
“It’s the Detroit express I want, but it doesn’t stop here and they
won’t flag it for me. I’ll give you ten dollars if you’ll run me up to
Cleveland, so I can board it there.”
“It’s all of fifty miles to Cleveland and it’s four o’clock now,”
objected Tommy Beals.
The man shot a quick glance back toward the station where the engine of
the despised local was blowing off steam in a tempest of sound. “Yes,
it’s fifty miles,” he growled. “I’ll pay you twenty-five dollars, if you
get me there ahead of the express.”
“Can we do it?” asked Dick, a bit doubtfully. “How about it, Ned?”
“We might,” replied Ned, and then added with native caution, “but I’d
want to see the money before we start.”
With an impatient grunt, the stranger plunged a hand beneath his coat
and brought forth a roll of paper money, from which he selected two
bills.
“Here’s fifteen dollars!” he exclaimed. “I’ll pay you the other ten if
you land me at Cleveland station ahead of the express.”
With a nod of agreement Ned pocketed the money, and at his command the
ice-boat was swung around till her long bowsprit pointed westward. The
passenger took his place forward, where he lay flat, grasping the foot
of the mast. The big valise he handled with care, holding it tightly in
the crook of his free arm.
“There goes the express!” cried Dick as, with a shriek of its whistle,
the big locomotive tore past Truesdell station with unabated speed and
roared away down the line, dragging a long line of swaying coaches in
its wake.
Rather slowly at first, the _Frost King_ nosed its way out from the
partial shelter of the docks and headed out upon the frozen lake. She
was half a mile from shore before the full force of the wind struck her
and then, with a sharp crunch of her keen runners, the big craft shot
forward in pursuit of the already vanished express.
For the first few miles the ice was almost perfectly smooth, and to
Dick’s excited senses it seemed as if the boat were actually flying
through space, so steady was her bullet-like speed. Soon he caught sight
of the train far ahead. It disappeared behind a wooded point, and when a
few minutes later it had reappeared, they were running almost abreast of
the rear coach. Car by car the flying ice-boat overhauled the fast
express, till it ran neck and neck with the locomotive and a moment
later had poked its long bowsprit into a clear lead. A flutter of white
from the window of the cab told that the engine crew also watched the
race with keen interest.
“We’ve got ’em licked!” screamed Dick as he waved back frantically; but
at that instant Ned shoved the tiller hard down. The _Frost King_ slewed
into the wind with her canvas slatting furiously and came to a quick
stop.
“What the blazes!” yelped Dick, bouncing up from his place and staring
about him in astonishment. “What’s the idea?”
The passenger likewise straightened up and demanded the reason for the
sudden stop.
“There’s a big crack ahead,” explained Ned briefly, and leaping from the
boat, he ran forward to investigate.
Large bodies of water, such as Lake Erie, do not freeze with uniform
smoothness as do small ponds. At intervals over their frozen surfaces
great cracks form, which the varying winds cause to open and close with
a force sufficient to tilt the ice along their borders at a sharp angle.
It was one of these open cracks dead ahead that had caught Ned’s
watchful eye.
[Illustration: “‘WE’VE GOT ‘EM LICKED!’ SCREAMED DICK”]
“It’s ten feet wide if it’s an inch,” grumbled Tommy, as he stood at the
edge of the lane of black water that stretched far to right and left of
their course. “Can you jump it, Ned?”
“Not with the load we’re carrying,” was the decided answer. “We’ll have
to look for a better place.”
Hurrying back to the boat, they skirted the crack for a mile, coming at
last to a spot where a great cake of ice on the near side of the opening
lay tilted at an angle that afforded a good take-off for the jump.
“Here’s the only possible chance I can see to make it,” observed Ned,
after a quick survey of the situation. Then addressing the stranger he
rapidly stated the case. “This crack right where we are is almost six
feet wide,” he explained. “There’s a fair chance that we can jump it,
but I’ll admit it’s none too easy a stunt. Do you want to risk it?”
“Sure,” growled the man in the fur coat. “Go ahead.”
Without another word, Ned tacked quickly to starboard, swung in a wide
circle and headed directly for the crack, driving the _Frost King_ to
the very limit of her speed.
“Here we go!” yelled Tommy. “Hold _everything_!” And at that instant the
big boat struck the tilted ice-cake, fairly leaped into the air, and a
second later landed with a splintering crash on the farther side of the
crack.
“Zowie!” yelped Dick. “That loosened every tooth in my head!”
“We’re lucky it didn’t take the mast out of her,” answered Ned. “Now
keep a sharp lookout ahead. I’m going to _drive_ her.”
For the next twenty miles the _Frost King_ tore along at a speed that
almost forced the breath from the bodies of her crew. The wind was
increasing in strength, and in some of the sharper gusts it would lift
the windward shoe clear off the ice, dropping it again with a jolt that
caused the mast to sway and buckle dangerously.
“It’s up to you to stop that, Fatty,” shouted Ned and, obedient to
orders, Tommy Beals crept out along the cross-plank till his ample
weight reposed at the extreme outer end, where he held tightly to the
wire shrouds.
With this extra ballast to windward, the boat held to the ice much
better and showed a considerable increase in speed, such that very soon
Dick pointed to a white plume of steam which showed against the dark
stretch of woodland far ahead.
“She’s blowing for some crossing,” shouted Ned, above the whistle of the
wind. “We’re picking up on her but she’s got a big lead.”
The early winter twilight soon closed down, making it difficult to
distinguish objects a hundred yards ahead. The green and red lights of a
railroad switch-tower swept past, and a moment later Dick sighted the
rear lights of the train. At the same moment a second plume of steam
appeared and the faint scream of a distant whistle reached their ears.
Foot by foot the lead was cut down till once again the _Frost King_ ran
neck and neck with the big locomotive. A bobbing red lantern saluted
them from the window of the cab and then, as the express slackened in
the outlying suburbs of the city, the ice-boat shot ahead and in a few
minutes was rounding the breakwater that protects Cleveland’s
waterfront.
“Here we are!” announced Ned, as he brought the boat into the wind.
“We’ve beat the express by five minutes.”
The man in the fur coat rose stiffly from his place beside the mast.
“All right,” he replied gruffly. “Here’s your money,” and peeling a
ten-dollar bill from his roll, he handed it to Ned and hurried away
across the ice, holding the heavy valise beneath his arm.