"The whole camping idea is a great one, if we could only put it through," declared Dick.
"Then let's put it through," pressed Greg Holmes. "Where there's a will there's a way, you know."
"The trouble is that we need a pocketbook more than a will," returned Prescott doubtfully. "It would take lumber to build a winter camp, even if we could prove ourselves good enough carpenters."
"How much money would it take?"
"Well, I don't believe a hundred dollars would go far," declared Reade.
"Make it a thousand, then," laughed Darrin. "We fellows couldn't raise either sum in a year."
"It's too bad," sighed Harry Hazelton. "A good camp, at this time of the year, would be huge fun!"
"Yes; it would," agreed Dick. "I don't see the way now, but we may find it. We can keep on hoping."
"Hey, you boobs!" called a disagreeable voice across the ice.
All of the six Grammar School boys slowed down and turned around. They found themselves looking at a solitary skater who had slowed down. He was Fred Ripley, son of Lawyer Ripley, one of the wealthy men of the town. Fred was never over polite to those whom he considered as his "inferiors." Besides, young Ripley was now in his freshman year at the Gridley High School. As such, he naturally looked down on mere Grammar School boys, none of whom, perhaps, would ever reach the dignity of "attending High."