“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?”