Frank only laughed, and shook his head.
"He's come up here to pick up points on our team's playing!" shouted another lad, skating up eagerly to see what was going on.
"Go chase yourself, Tommy Dodd. Frank Allen doesn't sneak around that way. He's a clean sport, Frank is, and does things on the level, if he does live in poor old Columbia," cried a third fellow, wearing the Clifford colors on his hat.
"Thanks awfully for that, Dakes. But don't go to pitying Columbia. She's got all she can stand now, taking care of the honors she's won this year. When we sweep up your clever seven in hockey it means that everything belongs to us this year. We're just on our way further up the river, and must be off. Be good to yourselves, and bring plenty of handkerchiefs along day after to-morrow. You may need 'em."
With this sort of chaff Frank waved his hand to the group. Then he and Ralph slipped away, and in a few minutes, turning a bend, they lost sight of the Clifford crowd.
A few miles above this town the Harrapin began to get smaller. The banks came closer together, and the surrounding country became much wilder.
When noon arrived they had gone about as far as was advisable. The ice was not so good, and the stream had become a mere winding creek.
"This is about the limit; suppose we call a halt here," suggested Frank, as he sat down upon a tree that very conveniently hung very low from the bank, offering a seat.
"Where are we, do you suppose?" asked Ralph.
"I fancy about twenty miles from Columbia by water, and perhaps fourteen as the crow flies. The stream twists and turns around like a snake up here. The railroad is near by, too. We've been ascending all the time. Look there, you can just get a glimpse of a distant smoke-stack. Know what that is? The penitentiary over at Lauderville."