Then there was the toboggan slide down Randall's Hill, and way
across the river on the ice.
Our Craft Strikes the Ice.
[Illustration: A Sail on the Scooter Scow.]
Dutchy talked so incessantly that we hadn't noticed the field of ice which
we were nearing. Just at this point Bill turned around with an
exclamation.
"Here, Dutchy, you crazy fellow, where are you going to? Hard to port,
man--hard aport--or you will crash into the ice!"
But Dutchy only grinned nervously.
"I tell you, you will smash the boat!" Bill cried again, making a dive
for the steering oar; but just then the boat struck the ice, and both Bill
and I were thrown backward into the bottom of the boat. But the boat
didn't smash. There was a momentary grinding and crunching noise, and,
much to my surprise, I found that the old scow had lifted itself clean out
of the water, and was skating right along on the ice. Then Dutchy could
control himself no longer. He laughed, and laughed, as if he never would
stop. He laughed until the steering oar dropped from his hands, and the
old scow, with the head free, swung around and plunged off the ice ledge
with a heavy splash into the open water again. Then Reddy, who was almost
equally convulsed, came to his senses.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165