'Twas sure death to be left on the ice. The wind begun to taste of frost. And 'twas jumping up. 'Twould carry the floe far and scatter it broadcast.
"See for yourself, lad," says Tom.
"Pshaw!" says Eleazer. "That's too bad!"
"You isn't no sorrier than me, b'y."
Eleazer tweaked his beard. "Dang it!" says he. "I wisht there was room. I'm hungry for my supper."
"Let un in," says one of the lads. "'Tis even chances she'll float it out."
"Well," says Eleazer, "I doesn't want t' make no trouble——"
"Come aboard," says Tom. "An' make haste."
"If she makes bad weather," says Eleazer, "I'll get out."
They pushed off from the pan. 'Twas falling dusk, by this time. The wind blowed black. The frost begun to bite. Snow came thick—just as if, ecod, somebody up aloft was shaking the clouds, like bags, in the gale! And the rodney was deep and ticklish; had the ice not kept the water flat in the lanes and pools, either Eleazer would have had to get out, as he promised, or she would have swamped like a cup. As it was, handled like dynamite, she done well enough; and she might have made harbor within the hour had she not been hailed by Pinch-a-Penny Peter from a small pan of ice midway between.