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.
A Sail on the Scooter Scow.
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. “Now you’ve done it, Dutchy; you’re a fine skipper, you are! How do you expect to get us back to shore again?” The steering oar was left behind us on the ice, and there we were drifting on the open water, with no rudder and no oar to bring us back.
The Scooter Scow.