“Any of you fellows going down to the water front?” asked Paul Perkins, one bitter Saturday morning. The air was bound in iron fetters. Hard, black ice froze up the creek behind his house—the same creek which had supplied the water to quench the wagon house fire—and a chill wind was sweeping in from the sea.
“The water front?” echoed Tubby, who, with Rob and Merritt Crawford, had dropped into Paul’s on their way to the Red Mill pond, where they meant to enjoy some skating.
“You must need a bath awfully badly if you’re going to plunge in to-day,” added the stout youth.
“I’m going down to overhaul the iceaeromobile,” declared Paul, who had a big monkey wrench in his hand. “I’ve got it down in Redding’s boathouse now. It was the only place I could find to store it. Sam Redding let me put it there.”
“That was white of Sam,” declared Rob. “What a change there is in that fellow since he emerged from the influence of Bill Bender and his crowd.”
“I should say so,” agreed Merritt. “Say, fellows, let’s go down and see how the machine looks. Maybe Paul will give her a try-out, eh, Paul?”
“Don’t know,” rejoined the inventive youth. “If the ice is over the Inlet good and firm, we might try it. I’d like to, all right.”
“I heard it was thick enough to bear a wagon,” chimed in Merritt. “Wow! feel that wind blow. If there’s any ship off shore, she’ll have a hard time beating up into it.”
“That’s right,” agreed Rob; “but come on; let’s be getting down to Redding’s. I’d like to have another good look at Paul’s gasolene bobsled.”
The boys were soon at the boatyard. Under a canvas cover, as they entered, they could see the outlines of Sam’s hydroplane—the one which had caused them so much trouble when the Eagle Patrol was first organized. Other yachts stood about, shrouded mysteriously in their winter coverings. Their bare spars looked odd and melancholy, sticking up like leafless trees in the bitter wind.