“Hurrah! hurrah!” cried the others, and Barton Coils joined in, waving his towel over his head as he did so.
Off they started, through the little town. The last house was soon left behind. Before them lay nothing but hills, woods and a frozen lake. Their outing in the ice and snow had truly begun.
CHAPTER XII.
JACK BECOMES LOST.
“Dis am de most glorious trip wot ever was, by golly!” cried Pickles, as he shoved on ahead of the rest, dragging the sled behind him. “Dis coon is werry glad he is alibe jess about now, boys!”
And in the exuberance of his spirits, Pickles broke out into an old darky refrain about the history and death of a wonderful “Blue-tail Fly,” the chorus to which was so catchy that they were soon every one of them singing it.
“I’m glad he came along,” whispered Jack to Harry. “He’ll make days we can’t go out seem shorter.”
“So am I, Jack, Pickles is just the fellow for this crowd.”
The boys had received close directions concerning the best route to pursue to reach the lake, and they were careful that no mistake should be made. They followed a road almost half through what was called Jackson’s Run, and then struck off across a number of open fields to where a tiny stream ran at the foot of a long hill.
“That creek empties into Rock Island Lake,” said Boxy. “I know, for I was up here once in the summer, and my uncle told me so.”
“Then why can’t we follow the stream until we reach the lake,” suggested Andy.