A moving, flashing light gleamed across the glassy surface of the lake. It was followed by another and still another. The three torch bearers, who had circled round the island, were now speeding southward. Two of them seemed to be racing far over toward the western shore of the lake. Apparently the third had not joined in this contest, and he was much nearer.
“Help!” called Rod once more.
The nearest skater heard the cry and swerved suddenly in Grant’s direction.
“What’s the matter?” he shouted. “Where are you?”
“Here—here in the water. I’ve broken in.”
Grant’s teeth rattled together as he uttered these words, the icy chill of the lake seeming to benumb him through and through. Nevertheless, he fancied he had recognized the voice of the approaching fellow as that of Hunk Rollins, and a moment later the waving torch, lighting the face of its bearer, showed beyond question that it was Rollins.
At a safe distance Hunk came to a full stop. “Who is it?” he called again.
“It’s I—Grant. Can’t seem to lift myself out. I can barely hang on.”
“Jerusalem!” gasped Hunk. “I don’t dare to get near you. It’s dangerous there.” Then he whirled swiftly and went skating away as fast as he could, yelling at the top of his voice: “Hi! hi! fellers! Come back! Grant’s broke in!”
To the dismay of the boy in the water, the racing torch bearers did not seem to hear Rollins, who continued to pursue them, repeating his calls. Farther and farther away they went, the sound of their skates ringing over the surface of the lake.