“It’s not freezing now,” said the school-master, “and you may see how much larger that weak place where the stream is has got since yesterday. However,” he added, good-humouredly, “I suppose you think you know your own mill-dam and its ways better than I can?”
“Well,” said the heavy man, still with his back to us, “I reckon we’ve slid on this dam a many winters afore you come. No offence, I hope?”
“By no means,” said the school-master; “but if
you old hands do begin to feel doubtful as the afternoon goes on, call off those lads at the other end in good time. And if you could warn them not to go in rushes together—but perhaps they would not listen to you,” he added with a spice of malice.
“I don’t suppose they would, sir,” said John Binder, candidly. “They’re very venturesome, is lads.”
“I reckon they’ll suit themselves,” said the heavy man, and he jumped on to the ice, and went off, still with his back to us.
“If I hadn’t lived so many years out of England and out of the world,” said the school-master, turning to me with a half-vexed laugh, “I don’t suppose I should discredit myself to no purpose by telling fools they are in danger. Jack! will you promise me not to go on the dam this afternoon?”
“It is dangerous, is it?” I asked reluctantly; for I wanted sorely to join the rest.
“That’s a matter of opinion, it seems. But I have a wish that you should not go on till I come back. I’ll be as quick as I can. Promise me.”
“I promise,” said I.