Paul’s arm caught it when he lifted the arm to protect his head from the flying missile.
Instantly Lanky Wallace made a lunge for the tramp, but that fellow had gotten through the door, pulling it quickly enough to stop the progress of the young Columbian.
Outside the two tramps walked half backwards, keeping an eye on the door and shaking their fists as they went. The mackinaws they wore were of good material and were warm despite their ragged appearance.
The four boys, standing at the side windows, watched the two tramps trudge through the snow-covered trail along the bank of Old Moose Lake, moving off to the eastward.
“I wonder if there is a camp in that direction,” said Frank, nodding toward the tramps.
“Sure. I’ll bet there are a dozen camps around the lake. Just look, Frank. It’s clear and you can see how far it stretches,” replied Lanky, indicating with his finger the broad distances across the lake.
True enough, it must have been a wide expanse of water, for they could see no trees to indicate the opposite shore, though little hillocks here and there, with trees growing on them, suggested the existence of islands in the lake.
“Do you know,” said Frank, after a long silence, the tramps moving farther and farther away, finally disappearing around a clump of trees more than a quarter of a mile distant, “I believe the lake is freezing over, or has frozen over, and that the snow isn’t deep. You see, the snow probably fell into the water and melted until the water froze, and it hasn’t snowed much since then. I’m going to see.”
All four of the boys went out of the house and to the shore of the lake. Frank reached out the butt of his rifle and tapped the surface. There was not more than two inches of snow on top, and a coating of ice over the waters beneath.
“Hit it harder,” suggested Paul Bird.