“Didn’t get away any too soon,” said Fred, trying hard to keep his teeth from chattering.
“We haven’t got away yet,” returned Bobby grimly. “Better not count our chickens till they’re hatched.”
“Do you think they’ll chase us?” asked Mouser.
“No telling,” returned Bobby. “But whether they do or not, the thing for us to do just now is to keep still and work.”
They did as he said, bending to the oars, grateful for work that would keep the blood circulating in their veins.
Bobby, precious compass at hand, directed their course, occasionally lighting a match to make sure they were keeping true to it.
And after a while, how long a time they had no way of knowing, they became sure they were safe from pursuit. There was no human sound in the dark, grim wastes about them, only the doleful rise and fall of the wind and the brittle scraping of the ice against the sides of their little boat.
“Well, I guess, fellows,” it was Bobby who broke the silence at last, “that we’ve done it all right. We’re free again, anyway.”
“Free!” repeated Fred. “Say, make believe that word doesn’t sound good to me!”
“I’ll say so,” agreed Mouser and Billy together, and for the moment all doubt of the future was forgotten in a wild feeling of elation.