They were soon on the river, and, crossing to the other shore, started after their companions.
It was growing colder every moment, and the breeze on the ice, little as it was, went through them like a knife. They were glad enough when they saw numerous lights ahead, which they knew must be the town for which they were bound.
Presently they came upon a party of skaters, and from them learned that the Icicle had passed on but a few minutes before. They kept on, and just before Barton Coils’ boathouse was reached, they overtook their companions.
“Got a fox, sure enough!” cried Andy. “Who shot it?”
“Harry, and he saved my life doing it,” replied Boxy, and, hardly waiting to catch his breath, he told his story, to which those who had gone on ahead listened with keen interest.
By the time Boxy had finished, the boathouse, at which the Icicle was to be left, was reached, and, leaving the iceboat and the sled in a safe place, all hands rushed into the building to warm up around the red-hot stove, which to them looked to be just then the most inviting thing in the world.
Barton Coils, a jolly man of forty, received them cordially, and soon made them feel at home.
“I’ll bet ye had a most uncommon cold run of it,” he said. “And a cup of hot coffee will be just the thing to warm your inwards, eh?” and he straightway set about preparing, not only coffee, but a whole hot supper for them in his tiny kitchen in the rear.
By the time supper was ready, they were somewhat rested. They crowded around his small table like so many famished wolves, and it was astonishing to see how rapidly the food disappeared. Luckily, he had sufficient on hand, so no one went short.
Barton Coils took a lively interest in the proposed expedition, and declared he almost wished he was one of the party.