“Just now it was a case of a form in black a-floundering in the snow,” remarked Boxy to Harry, and the latter laughed heartily over the joke.
“We ought to be getting near to the lake now,” said Jack, about four o’clock in the afternoon.
“That’s so,” said Andy. “If we get there much later than this there will be no time left to build a shelter for the night.”
On and on they went, taking turns at dragging the sled with its heavy load. The sun was pretty well down, and it began to grow colder.
“The lake, at last!” suddenly burst from Boxy’s lips, and he ran ahead, quickly followed by the others.
Boxy was right. A short dash through a clump of trees, and they stood on the shore of Rock Island Lake. Before them was a broad expanse of glass-like ice, dotted here and there with long drifts of snow.
“Hurrah!” they all shouted, and Pickles added: “An’ dis ends de day’s trabbels ob de Zero Club.”
“Now for a good spot to pitch camp,” cried Jack. “I can’t say that I like it right here.”
“No; it’s too cold,” returned Harry. “Let’s go back a little, say a hundred feet or so, and find some sort of shelter behind some rocks.”
This was readily agreed upon, and the boys scattered in various directions, each trying to find a more suitable spot than the others.