“Lower your sails, Pickles!” cried Boxy, who looked at the difficulty in the light of a joke. He had to dig his heels deep into the ice to keep himself from following the colored youth.
Jack was drawing the sled. A dozen times it swung around, and just as he thought he had it right, the wind got under it, and over it went in a trice, spilling off several things that had not been packed on well.
With much trouble the sled was righted. Pickles fought his way back, and helped tie the traps fast, this time making sure that not a single thing was left loose.
“It won’t do to lose even a plate,” said Andy. “For there are just enough for the crowd and no more.”
“If this keeps on, we’ll have a blizzard!” gasped Harry. “It fairly takes one’s breath away!”
“Have to keep your mouth shut or you’ll swallow a lot of snow, too!” put in Boxy. “By the looks of things around us, one would imagine we were out on the plains of Montana!”
“The best thing we can do is to stop talking and fight our way to the shore,” remarked Jack, seriously. “The first thing you know, we’ll be turned around, and we won’t know in what direction the shore is.”
Once again they moved forward. The snow beat on the right sides of their faces and filled their right ears, and, unconsciously, they turned a little away, and thus took a course which led them partly up the lake instead of directly across.
By twelve o’clock they were nowhere near the woods they knew was beyond the edge of the lake. All around them were ice and snow. The wind had let up a bit, but the snow was whirling down thicker than ever.
“I’m getting played out,” said Andy.