“Mebbe him Corporal Rand know about raft somewhere on other side of river,” said Toma.
“He never mentioned it to me.”
Sandy, who had been sitting on the end of a fallen tree, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, looked up with a smile.
“You can trust Rand and Richardson to do the impossible,” he pointed out. “I’d like to lay you a wager that if they reach the opposite side of the river tonight, they’ll manage somehow to find a way to get across. Perhaps they’ll come floating over on one of those huge cakes of ice.”
“I won’t take your bet, Sandy,” Dick laughed. “Just the same I’d hate to be in their shoes.”
Toma rose and walked down to the edge of the river, returning a moment later with water for tea. Huddled around the blaze, they ate from the supplies that had been purchased at Wandley’s post. Darkness was quickly descending. As is frequently the case in the North, the wind subsided as night approached; but the snow continued to fall. If possible, it came down thicker than ever. About them was one all-enveloping mantle of white. Even the trees and underbrush bent under the weight of their snowy burden.
The three ponies, warmly blanketed, each one tied to a long picket-rope, pawed away the snow in order to browse at the dead grass and moss underneath. Dick felt sorry for the little beasts, almost wishing that he had left them with Constable Pearly’s horse at Wandley’s. While he was watching them, Toma broke forth abruptly:
“Did you hear that?”
The three rose swiftly to their feet and rushed down to the shore of the river. Again came the sound—a faint halloo which trembled across the valley. The boys cupped their hands to their mouths and sent back an answering shout.
“The police party! What did I tell you, Dick? They’ll make it yet!”