“Sprained his ankle, most likely,” he said to Joe.
“Lucky I wasn’t killed,” groaned Hanleigh. “I was going at terrific speed, and I couldn’t get the boat stopped. I tried to lower sail and the wind turned the whole boat over on top of me.”
“Anybody who goes ice-boating in a storm like this deserves whatever happens to him,” observed Chet unsympathetically.
Hanleigh was a heavy man, and by the time the boys reached the island they were forced to stop and rest. Then, puffing from their labors, they raised the injured man to their shoulders again and began to climb up the slope.
“I’m glad you heard me shouting,” muttered Hanleigh. “I would have frozen to death out there.”
“A lucky chance for you that we heard you at all,” Joe said. “If we had been up in the cabin we would never have heard a whisper.”
Frank nudged his brother.
“Lucky for us, too,” he said. “Now we’ll be able to make him talk.”
At last they reached the cabin. They put Hanleigh on one of the beds, and then Frank examined the injured leg. As he had suspected, it was not broken, although the ankle was badly sprained. Having bathed it and put liniment and a bandage on the injured limb, Frank looked down at Hanleigh.
“You’re all right. Don’t make such a fuss. It’s only a sprain.”