“If it were summer-time and this were Sandy Hook,” said Parker, with a smile, “I should think that perhaps the cup-race might be on.”
“I should say, rather, it is the ghost of Gid Ward's boom gunlow,” returned the man, not to be outdone in jest. “He's got an old scow with a sail like that.”
Both men surveyed the dim whiteness with increasing interest.
“Are there any ice-boats on the lake?” inquired the engineer.
“I never heard of any such thing hereabouts.”
“Well, I have made that out to be an iceboat of some description. And with that spread of sail it is making great progress.” Parker rolled up his coat collar and pulled down his fur cap. A feeling of disquiet pricked him. “I think I'll stay here a little while and watch that fellow,” he said.
“So will I,” agreed his employé.
The approaching sail grew rapidly. Soon the craft was to be descried more in detail. Under the sail was a flat, black mass. And now on the breeze came swelling a chorus of rude songs, the melody of which was shot through with howls and bellows of uproarious men.
“Trouble's coming there, Mr. Parker!” gasped the foreman, apprehensively. “The wind behind 'em an' rum inside 'em.”