"Owen is killed!" cried Dale. "The log has smashed him flat!" And for the moment he felt so weak he could scarcely stand.
"I—I don't see him," faltered Andrews nervously. He felt that if the young lumberman had really been taken off thus suddenly he would be in a measure responsible.
"We should have made certain that the slide was clear before we let the log down," groaned Dale. "Oh, this is dreadful!"
"What's the yelling about?" asked another lumberman, rushing up, and soon a dozen or more were assembled at the top of the slide.
They could see but little in the gathering darkness, and burning with anxiety to know the exact truth of the catastrophe, Dale began to let himself down the hillside by means of a pair of sharp-pointed sticks. Andrews and two others followed.
"There he is, on the ice!" cried Andrews, just before the bottom was reached.
"Sure enough!" burst out Dale. "Why, if he isn't crawling from a hole in the ice!"
"The log must have knocked him into that hole," said one of the others. "But he doesn't seem to be much hurt."
A little lighter in heart, now that he knew his chum was alive, Dale continued on his way to the pond, and reached the edge just as Owen came ashore. The latter limped a little and was dripping from head to feet with icy water.
"Owen!" For the moment Dale could say no more. "Did—did——"