The foot of Eagle was still over a mile beyond; how far they did not know, because they could not see the shore on either hand. They were alone in a trackless desert.
“You must come, Hal,” bade Ned, stooping and raising him. “Tom and I’ll push you.”
“No, I’m going to freeze. That’s what Bob’s howling meant!” moaned Hal, dismally.
But Ned and Tom each took an arm, and with him between them valiantly struggled on. And it was a struggle, with Ned doing most of the pushing, and Tom having hard work to stand up for himself, and Hal a dead weight.
After they had floundered on, in this way, with pauses to catch breath, for seemingly a thousand miles, the wooded end of Eagle showed darkly through the driving storm.
“Hurrah. There it is, Hal!” cheered Ned.
His ankle had ceased to pain him; it had lapsed from fire to an icy numbness. Now it kept turning under him and his strokes were irregular and lacked force. Tom, still thinking that he was helping Hal, was walking on his skates, rather than skating. Ned was the only one who talked. Hal was heart-sick, and Tom was one of those chaps who simply press their lips the tighter, and plod on until they drop.
Eagle approached, oh, so slowly. Risking the danger of possibly thin ice close in shore, Ned, pushing Hal, and with Tom stubbornly stumbling along on the other side, strove for the point.
“There!” breathed Ned, as all three had done before, at the Newton levee. This time, however, he was the only one to say it.
They flopped down among the brittle bushes, for a rest. It seemed good to be on land—bleak as the spot was.