Like the ill wind that nevertheless blows some good, the thaw, although spoiling the coasting, opened the way for two weeks of the finest skating that Beaufort had ever known. The snow had become water, but the water now became ice.

For in the north Winter heard how his sovereignty was thus being intruded upon by an o’er-anxious Spring, and in haste dispatched to the scene General Bitter-Cold. With his force General Bitter-Cold arrived, amid a flourish of trumpets, late one night. So well did he work that by morning Beaufort and the country round-about was Winter’s again.

He sealed each pond and stream with the seal of empire, and then proceeded to fetter anew the mighty river.

Beaufort had a system of weather flags; and when, for some hours preceding General Bitter-Cold’s arrival, the cold-wave signal was flown from the staff upon the town hall cupola, it was received by Ned and his cronies, save Bob, with much delight. Bob, being rather thin-skinned, much preferred spring, no matter how early it might come.

But with no snow left, and with the streets mud and water, Ned decided that almost anything would be welcome.

“The paper says that the temperature will fall forty degrees by morning,” announced Mr. Miller, at supper.

“Won’t that be fine, though!” asserted Ned.

“It won’t be very fine for the poor people, however,” suggested Mrs. Miller.

Ned tried to look solemn, but the picture of the skating quite blotted out that of the poor.

That night, as he sunk his cheek into his pillow, about to go to sleep, he heard old Boreas sound a fanfare down the flue; and he chuckled and blissfully cuddled into a ball.

In the barn loft Bob, at the end of his burrow amid the hay, raised his head for a moment, inquiringly; then, with a shiver instead of a chuckle, he, also, cuddled closer.

The next morning Ned was detailed to sprinkle ashes and sawdust upon the various walks and paths belonging to the premises, so that the other members of the household might venture out with safety. For himself he left a narrow strip, leading from back stoop to barn, unsprinkled; it was his private slide, and was a constant peril to other back-yard visitors, notably Maggie and Bob.

There was now excellent skating on the flats, where several large ponds had been formed and had readily frozen over. But the river yielded more slowly. However, the zero weather was genuine, and had come to stay a while. Grimly General Bitter-Cold did his work, day by day and night by night building from either bank out toward midstream, until finally a juncture had been made and over the channel itself had been spread a crust of crystal.

So quickly this crust deepened and toughened, that soon an ice bridge had been staked out, and teams were crossing from shore to shore.

The work of freezing had been done very quietly. On this account the Mississippi was now like glass. All Beaufort went skating. The field was unlimited, save as in the swiftest parts of the current the water continued to show, sullen and black.

“We’re going to skate down to Newton next Saturday,” declared Ned, confidently.

“It’s good of you to tell us,” remarked his father, mildly.

Ned was puzzled. He was not exactly sure what the tone of voice meant.

“Well, can’t I?” he inquired.

“That is a problem,” replied his father, bent upon teasing. “But I should think that a boy who not an hour ago declared himself unequal to the task of filling up two coal stoves might find considerable difficulty.”

“Oh, pshaw!” pouted Ned, the hit telling. “I mean, may I?”

“Just as your mother says,” answered his father. “We’ll leave it to her.”

Ned’s face did not express any great joy over this condition upon his going. He knew so well what an amount of convincing his mother, always timid, winter or summer, about the river, would take. Nevertheless, he went boldly at his task.

“May I, mother?” he appealed to Mrs. Miller, who had been listening with a smile on her face.

“Oh, Neddie! I don’t believe the ice is safe!” she said.

“Pooh!” scoffed Ned. “It’s more than two feet thick, right in the channel. You just ought to see the big chunks they’re cutting out for next summer.”

“But Newton’s so far,” objected his mother. “You wouldn’t get back until long after dark.”

“Why, mother!” exclaimed Ned, quite out of patience. “It’s only fourteen miles and we can skate that in an hour and a half easy.”

“I’m so afraid you’ll run into an air-hole, or something, Neddie,” pleaded his mother, unwilling to pull down her flag.

“There isn’t a bit of danger,” assured Ned, eagerly. “Lots of the fellows have been down and back, and there’s a regular path.”

“Who, for instance?” suddenly chipped in his father. “‘Lots of fellows,’ I find, is sometimes rather indefinite.”

“Lou Ravens and ‘Duke’ Burke did it just the other afternoon,” promptly responded Ned.

“Still, since they are not centipedes it takes more than two boys to make a path, you know, Ned,” said his father, drily.

“But we could follow their skate marks—really we could, father,” cried Ned. “May I go, mother?”

“What do you say, Will?” asked Mrs. Miller, seeking refuge in her husband.

“Now that isn’t fair,” cried Ned. “Father said he’d leave it to you. May I? It’s just as safe as our back yard.”

“You’ll be very, very careful, and watch out for air-holes?” asked his mother.

“Yes, I will,” promised Ned.

“And be home before dark?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And not take any risks?”

“No, ma’am.”

Mrs. Miller looked doubtfully at her husband. Ned foresaw surrender, and with a hug and a kiss he won her over.

“Then I may! May I? I may—may I? Mother, you’re just as good as you can be! And if you’ll give me a quarter I can get some oyster soup at Newton. Hal and Tom will. You see, we ought to have something warm, and oyster soup is dandy when a fellow’s empty.”

“Ask your father,” bade his mother, roguishly. “I’ve furnished the permission, and he’ll have to furnish the quarter.”

And it seemed to Ned that his mother had come out rather ahead, in the bargain.

It was not such a tremendously long skate upon which the boys started Saturday morning. In a straight line it would be only twelve miles, but by the bending river, and by the extra strokes that they would make in picking out the best patches of ice, it would be nearer fifteen. So down and back, it must be figured as thirty miles—only, the “back” was to seem twenty times longer than the “down”!

Hal called for Ned, and together they made for the levee, where they were to meet Tom. Ned thought that he had done the feat of slipping off without Bob’s seeing him. Bob was a very able dog, in the water; but on the water he was of very little use whatsoever. If in a boat, he became seasick; and if on ice, he slipped and slid.

When the boys arrived at the levee they found there not only Tom but also Zu-zu and a girl friend of hers.

“Why, you aren’t going, are you, Zu-zu?” asked Ned, in surprise.

“No—but I would if mamma’d let me,” replied Zu-zu, tossing her head. “I could skate that far as easy as not.”

“I bet you couldn’t,” said Hal.

“I could, too,” insisted Zu-zu. “You needn’t think that just because we’re girls we can’t do anything.”

“What made you bring Bob?” queried Tom.

“I didn’t,” said Ned.

Yet, at the moment Bob came sidling up from behind; grinning, begging pardon, hopeful that he would be forgiven and taken. It was very, very rarely that he stole such a march upon his master, for when he wasn’t wanted he usually had strength of mind enough to stay away. But to-day had entered into his head the idea that, willy-nilly, he would make one of the party; and keeping out of sight he had slyly sneaked along upon the opposite side of the street from the two boys, until farther dodging had been impossible.

“Bob! What are you doing here?” scolded Ned. “Aren’t you ’shamed of yourself!”

Bob was. He hugged the snow, and with his nervous tail confessed his hopes and fears.

“Go home!” thundered Ned.

Bob flattened himself still more, willing to be whipped, but unwilling to go home.

“Oh, Ned, don’t hurt him,” begged Zu-zu. “We’ll take him back, won’t we, Bess? Poor Bobbie!”

“All right,” responded Ned. “Only, he’s a bad dog, just the same. He knew he’d no business to come.”

Zu-zu gave Bob a friendly little pat.

“You’d like to go, the same as us, wouldn’t you, Bob?” she said. “And we would go, too, if we were only boys.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be a boy,” asserted Bessie.

“I would,” averred Zu-zu.

Bob said nothing upon the subject. As a rule, he was quite satisfied with being a dog. Zu-zu’s touch and voice, and the fact that the threshing did not descend, filled him with sudden energy. Up he sprang, thinking the crisis over; bounding and barking he rejoiced mightily, and bade his master rejoice with him. But on the contrary Ned paid him not the slightest attention. Bob was a dog in disgrace.

Off the six went, the girls proudly keeping abreast just to show what they could do, and Bob clawing behind, trying to prove that he was as good as any one on the ice, but nevertheless making poor work of it when it came to turning corners.

They passed the Diamond Jo warehouse, and Commodore Jones’ “boats-to-hire” establishment, where wintered under cover the scull-boat; and still skirting the shore sped under the bridge, between the first pier and the high stone base.

Here the girls must stop.

Here Bob must stop.

“Mother said this was as far as you could go, Zu-zu,” reminded Tom.

“Bob, go home!” ordered Ned.

“Come on, Bob,” cried Zu-zu.

“Good-bye,” said the boys, gliding on.

Bob was astounded, disappointed, hurt. He had not been taken. All his apologies had been for nothing. He was to be left with the girls!

He stood stock still, as if stunned, watching the receding figures of the three boys. Then he lifted his nose, and voiced his feelings in a piercing howl.

“Good-bye,” again called Ned, turning and waving his hand.

“Good-bye, Ned,” called Zu-zu, waving back at him.

“Wow-ow-ow-ow-u-u-u-u!” lamented Bob.

“When a dog howls it means somebody’s going to die,” croaked Hal.

“Well, I guess it’s none of us, anyway,” spoke Ned, quickly.

“How do you know?” argued Hal. “Maybe we’ll skate into a hole.”

“Oh, pish!” said Tom. “Shut up.”

“Wow-ow-ow-ow-u-u-u-u!” still mourned Bob.

“Yes, I know; it’s a shame, Bob,” said Zu-zu, patting him. “We could go just as well as they, couldn’t we? Only they’re boys, and we aren’t.”

Bob never gave her a glance. He turned his back on her, and looking neither to one side nor the other, with his tail curved downward and inward he climbed the bank, and headed for home.

“He’s disgusted. Come on, Bess,” laughed Zu-zu. So they skated up to the levee again.

The morning was glorious, with the sunbeams glistening over the ice, and the air full of little crystals. The river stretched broad and flat; here and there a hummock, and here and there a change from dark to light or from light to dark.

The steady rasp of the saws in the ice fields mingled with the angry shriek of the circular steam saws in the lumber-mills. All sounds were carried far, through this crisp atmosphere, over the level plain where once had been rippling water.

The boys felt like Mercuries, with winged heels, so swiftly their skate-blades bore them onward. Before they had uttered another word they were at the head of Eagle Island. Here they had the choice of taking Paper-mill Slough, or continuing upon the river proper.

“Let’s go outside the island,” suggested Ned. “They say the water that comes from the paper-mill is so warm it eats away the ice, and that the slough’s chuck-full of air-holes.”

Ned’s picture was enough to remove any question as to routes, and down along the outside of the island they dashed, their skates clinking a merry tune.

At first they followed, as Ned had assured his father they could, a “regular path,” made by the skate-blades of numerous others. They met nobody save three or four Hollanders from the island settlement; odd-looking people on wooden skates, bound, with easy, graceful motion, for town.

The tracks dwindled and dwindled, and presently there were none at all. Not a person was in sight. Before the three lay the vast expanse of ice, waiting to be explored.

What had become of those reputed marks of Lou Ravens and “Duke” Burke, the frozen river said not, and the boys spent no time in searching.

Stillness reigned, broken only by the wood chopper’s ax echoing from the island, the cawing of the black crows crossing overhead, the metallic rhythm of the skate-blades, and the rumbling groans of the ice as it cracked for miles under the grip of the cold.

“My—isn’t this fine!” cried Hal, spurting to relieve his spirits.

“I should say so!” agreed both his comrades, spurting also.

For a quarter of a mile they fairly flew.

In spots the ice was so smooth that they flitted over it with a velvety, rocking sensation; in others it was of coarser grain, through which their steel “zipped” only slightly less easily. In others it was rough enough to make the blades clatter.

But all the time the trees and bushes of the shore spun by as when viewed from the windows of a railroad train.

Now the ice was black and clear so that in shoal spots one could descry the sand beneath. Now it was dense and milky. To glide suddenly from the white ice upon the black was apt to give one a shock, for the black looked like water.

Zigzagging upon their course, trying to select the better ice, and ever keeping their eyes fixed before them in order to avoid air-holes, the boys, at times in close file and at times considerably separated, skated at full speed.

Gradually they cut away from the island side, and when they had reached the foot of Eagle they were far out, toward the shore of the mainland, opposite. Such a thing as slackening to rest never occurred to them. The miles fell behind with no effort; in fact, the pace was so blissful that the boys hardly cared to break the charm by talking, and only risked an occasional, “Isn’t this bully, though!” when they skimmed across a particularly glossy patch.

With the island out of the road, here the river was again a mile wide—a vast sheet of ice, with a few narrow strips of sparkling blue which denoted areas that never froze over.

The shore line bent inward, slightly, and looking down the mighty curve the boys could already see Newton, the clustered houses forming the background to a sandy sprit.

“I’ll stump you not to stop once till we get there,” challenged Hal to his companions.

“All right,” agreed Tom. “I could keep this up all day.”

“So could I,” asserted Ned, although his ankle, not so strong as it was before the sprain, protested that it couldn’t.

Ned ought to have supported it by a strap; but he claimed that only girls and molly-coddles wore straps.

Aiming straight for the village spire the three dashed on as though they were dispatch bearers. “Clink, clink, clink,” and the yellow dunes of the shore danced past, and Newton steadily drew nearer.

A last glorious burst of speed, to prove how fresh they were, and up to the Newton levee, fringed with skaters, they dashed. Panting, running perspiration, with a flourish and a scrape they halted.

“There!” they congratulated themselves, all together.

Thus they might go back home, and boast that they had come those miles without a stop—for although Tom had caught his toe in a crack and had pitched headlong, even while sliding the fastest he had regained his feet and continued his way.

They took off their skates, and went up town. As they climbed the levee their feet felt very flat and awkward, as is only natural when one has changed from flying to walking. Ned’s ankle pained him like sixty, but he minded it not.

There was not much to see in Newton. It had only the single business street. However, they sauntered here and there for an hour, feeling like distinguished visitors.

“Let’s eat,” at length spoke Ned.

His proposal was instantly adopted. They recalled a sign which stated “Oysters in All Styles”; and presently they had clumped into a little back room, and seated about a small round table were waiting impatiently for “three stews.”

“Say—but this tastes good!” sighed Ned, when they had drawn up their chairs, and the first spoonfuls had gone down.

“Um-m-m-m-m!” mumbled his two companions.

The stews disappeared; also, disappeared crackers and butter and pickles and celery. None of the boys ate pickles at home, but everything tastes good after a fifteen mile skate!

They pushed back their chairs, and sat a moment in silent contentment.

“Well, what do you say to starting?” yawned Hal, whom the warm soup and the close room were making sleepy. “Then we can take it easy.”

So they arose, and stiffly passed out.

“You boys come down from Beaufort, didn’t ye?” inquired the storekeeper, as each, with the air of a millionaire, planked his quarter down upon the glass cigar-case near the street door.

“Yes, sir,” responded Tom and Ned together.

“Wa-al, if you’re calculatin’ on skatin’ back I’d advise ye to be settin’ off,” drawled the storekeeper. “It’s gettin’ ready fer a big storm.”

“Do you think it will storm right away?” asked Hal, anxiously.

“Can’t say; but she’s a comin’, all right enough,” assured the storekeeper.

As soon as they were in the open air the boys could perceive a great change in the atmosphere. The sun no longer shone. Everything was gray, and the wind was wailing.

It blew full from the north. When they had left the levee, and were headed for home, it was exactly in their teeth.

It was a gusty, mean wind; sweeping upon them, with naught to interrupt it for miles and miles of ice, it at times almost took them off their feet.

With heads down, and coats closely buttoned, they stanchly pushed on.

Very different was this from the trip out.

“Whew!” gasped Tom, when they paused, after having covered about a mile.

“We’ll do like the geese, when they fly,” proposed Ned. “I’ll go first for fifteen minutes, and break the wind, and then you fellows can take your turns.”

They started, this time in single file, with Ned leading, and Tom next and Hal at the rear, all taking short, choppy strokes together. At the end of fifteen minutes, according to Hal’s watch—which his father had given him instead of a gun—Ned dropped back and Tom came to the front. Hal succeeded to Tom, until it was Ned’s turn again.

This plan worked very well; in the unity of action, the regular, unvarying stroke for stroke, was a certain force that carried them forward famously.

At the end of an hour and a half Hal suddenly called, from his place at the rear:

“Oh, fellows, stop a minute.”

Tom and Ned looked behind. There was Hal, lying flat on the ice!

“I’ve got to rest,” he explained, as the wind drifted them back upon him. Evidently he was the weak one in the party.

“Get up,” commanded Ned. “You’ll get all stiff.”

“I should say! You’ll feel worse than you did before,” chimed in Tom.

But Hal only lay and puffed.

“It’s snowing!” exclaimed Ned. “Come on, Hal; we’ve got to get home.”

Hard particles of snow were rushing with the wind, cutting through the air and scudding along over the ice.

Hal clambered to his feet, and the three lamely started again. The stop had stiffened not only Hal, but also the other two, and it required some effort to limber up once more.

The snow increased, coming in blinding squalls. The wind was keen and raw. The boys kept on as before, now swinging their arms, now skating with arms behind the back, and in other ways trying to ease their labor by variety, until soon they were appealed to by Hal to stop again.

“You needn’t lead any more, Hal,” said Ned. “Need he, Tom? We can break the wind, and he can keep behind.”

“Of course,” agreed Tom, stoutly.

But even then poor Hal needed frequent halts; he was doing his best, only his best was not so good as the best of the two others. Tom, also, began to be in distress. As for Ned, his weak ankle burned like fire.

The snow grew thicker, whirling out of the north, and with a wall of white resisting their advance. The ice was covered, so that their skate blades threw up little furrows. Now black ice and milk ice, rough and smooth, looked alike, and over the air-holes was spread a treacherous curtain.

“Come on, Hal! Don’t lie down!” urged Ned.

“I can’t. I’m tuckered!” gasped Hal. “You fellows go ahead, and let me freeze.”

“No, we won’t do any such thing,” declared Ned. “I tell you—we’ll land on Eagle and walk up it as far as we can. Walking will be a change.”

Tom said nothing, but his lips were white.

The foot of Eagle was still over a mile beyond; how far they did not know, because they could not see the shore on either hand. They were alone in a trackless desert.

“You must come, Hal,” bade Ned, stooping and raising him. “Tom and I’ll push you.”

“No, I’m going to freeze. That’s what Bob’s howling meant!” moaned Hal, dismally.

But Ned and Tom each took an arm, and with him between them valiantly struggled on. And it was a struggle, with Ned doing most of the pushing, and Tom having hard work to stand up for himself, and Hal a dead weight.

After they had floundered on, in this way, with pauses to catch breath, for seemingly a thousand miles, the wooded end of Eagle showed darkly through the driving storm.

“Hurrah. There it is, Hal!” cheered Ned.

His ankle had ceased to pain him; it had lapsed from fire to an icy numbness. Now it kept turning under him and his strokes were irregular and lacked force. Tom, still thinking that he was helping Hal, was walking on his skates, rather than skating. Ned was the only one who talked. Hal was heart-sick, and Tom was one of those chaps who simply press their lips the tighter, and plod on until they drop.

Eagle approached, oh, so slowly. Risking the danger of possibly thin ice close in shore, Ned, pushing Hal, and with Tom stubbornly stumbling along on the other side, strove for the point.

“There!” breathed Ned, as all three had done before, at the Newton levee. This time, however, he was the only one to say it.

They flopped down among the brittle bushes, for a rest. It seemed good to be on land—bleak as the spot was.

Presently Ned, arousing himself, kicked off his skates, and while Tom was fumbling with his, removed those of the passive Hal, also.

Ned stood up. Tom stood up. Hal tried, and fell back.

“Hal, you must!” again ordered Ned. “Don’t be a baby!”

“I’m not a baby!” sobbed Hal, stung to the quick, and staggering to his feet.

Tom looked on, saying nothing.

Off they went. As they warmed to their work, they found that walking was an agreeable change. The wind was broken by the trees, and although it wailed and roared, and the snow sifted in their faces, still they were far more comfortable than they had been upon the river.

Hal pluckily braced up, and would take no more help. Tom made no sign either way. Ned sang and whistled and joked, all by himself, and ever one leg from the knee down was only a dead weight. Sometimes he stole a glance at it to make sure that it was there.

Eagle Island seemed deserted. In all their long, dreary march, slipping, tripping, faint with hunger and wet with snow and perspiration, they saw not a house, nor heard, save Ned’s, a human voice.

When they reached the edge of the woods, they found that they had cut across the island, and were at the Paper-mill Slough.

Here Hal broke down again.

“You aren’t going to walk the slough, are you?” he whimpered, seeing that Tom and Ned were hobbling on, without swerving.

“Sure. Why not?” answered Ned. “We want to get home, and that’s the quickest way, isn’t it?”

“I’m afraid. The slough’s all full of air-holes!” faltered Hal, beginning to cry afresh from weariness and fear.

“We’ll go first, Hal,” comforted Ned. “You aren’t afraid to follow in our tracks, are you? See—Tom’s half way across already.”

For Tom had never paused, but had trudged ahead like a machine.

“N-no,” said Hal, trying to be brave, and not think of Bob’s howling.

It was dark. The slough was ghostly, and the farther shore was but a dim line. Here and there a light glimmered; northward were more lights, and Beaufort.

A couple of miles, and they would be home.

Over the slough stumped Ned; behind him trailed Hal, sobbing and moaning, but coming on, just the same. It was no use for them to pick their way. Air-hole and solid crust looked alike. And while the ice cracked under them, sending their hearts into their mouths, and the wind lashed them and the snow blinded them, they pushed forward and arrived in safety at the mainland. Tom was waiting for them, like a statue.

South Beaufort did not interfere with them as they toiled through it. Big Mike and the Conners and all were housed from the blasts. As they gained their own more familiar territory Hal blurted, suddenly:

“I’m sorry I was scared, fellows. But Bob howled so like the dickens that I thought something was going to happen.”

“Oh, pish!” muttered Tom—the first time in hours that he had spoken a word.

“That’s all right,” said Ned. “Hal had more grit than any of us, because he came ahead even though he was scared.”

Mrs. Miller was half frantic, and even Mr. Miller, sure as he was that Ned would “turn up,” was getting restive, when Ned tramped upon the front porch and in through the welcoming door.

“Oh, Neddie!” cried his mother.

“Don’t scold me. I’m so tired!” pleaded Ned, now feeling free to give in.

He pitched into a chair before the sitting-room stove, and they removed his cap and scarf and mittens, and pulled off his boots. After he had swallowed some warm supper, and had stammered his tale, he stumbled to bed; and his ankle throbbed, throbbed, throbbed, through all the night.

The next day he was on crutches again. Hal reported as well as ever. It was Tom, the silent, dogged Tom, who fared the worst, just as he had said the least. For a month he was sick from the strain and the exposure.