He guided the ice-boat into the little bay and its sail flapped idly as it came to a stop just a few feet from shore. The boys hopped out on to the ice and stretched their legs, then anchored the craft and made it secure. The little bay was sheltered from the wind. It was a natural harbor, and evidently the owner of the island had built his cabin where he did because of this ideal landing place that in summer was almost hidden from view by the overhanging trees.
Frank was examining the footprints leading toward the upper level.
“Only one set of footprints here,” he said. “They seem quite fresh, too. I wonder if any one is up there now.”
“Must be,” returned Joe. “The footprints lead up the hill, but there is none leading back.”
“Perhaps he went down the other side,” Chet suggested. “Well, we can’t let that scare us away. Let’s go.”
With Frank in the lead, the boys began to ascend the winding path, following those mysterious footprints in the snow.
They were about halfway up the side of the ravine when suddenly a dark figure appeared from behind a clump of trees a few yards ahead. A surly-looking man, black-browed and swarthy, advanced toward them, striding through the snow.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded in a rasping voice.
“Just thought we’d explore the island, sir,” answered Frank. “We hope you don’t mind.”
“I do mind!” retorted the stranger curtly. “Get away from here and stay away. I don’t allow visitors.”