“Fire!” he cried.
“Hey!” cried the wheelwright. “Fire! So it is. But there’s no house or stack out theer.”
“Only old Dave’s. Father said he thought it must be his place. Come on, Dick.”
“But how are we to get there?” cried Dick, forgetting the feud in the excitement.
“How are we to get there! Why, skate.”
“Will it be strong enough, Hicky?”
“Mebbe for you, lads; but it wouldn’t bear me, and I couldn’t get along the boat nor yet a sled.”
Tom had already seated himself, and was putting on his skates, while Dick immediately began to follow suit, with the result that in five minutes both were ready and all past troubles forgotten. The memory of the terrible night when his father was shot did come for a moment to Dick, but the trouble had grown dull, and the excitement of Dave’s place being on fire carried everything before it.
“Poor owd Dave!” said Hickathrift, as he gazed over the mere at the glow in the black frosty night. “He’s got off so far. Mebbe it’ll be my turn next. Come back and tell me, lads.”
“Yes, yes,” they shouted, as they walked clumsily to the ice edge, Dick first, and as he glided on there was an ominous ringing crack which seemed to run right out with a continuous splitting noise.