Nothing worthy of notice occurred until he reached the lake above-mentioned, on the borders of which he halted. Looking across the bay, on the other side of which the hunter’s wigwam stood, he could discern among the pines and willows the orange-coloured birch-bark of which it was made, but no wreath of blue smoke told of the presence of the hunter.
“H’m! not at home!” muttered Lumley, who then proceeded to debate with himself the propriety of venturing to cross the bay on the ice.
Now, it must be told that ice on the North American lakes becomes exceedingly dangerous at a certain period of spring, for, retaining much of its winter solidity of appearance, and, indeed, much of its winter thickness, it tempts men to venture on it when, in reality, it has become honeycombed and “rotten.” Ice of this kind—no matter how thick it be,—is prone to give way without any of those friendly cracks and rends and other warnings peculiar to the new ice of autumn, and, instead of giving way in angular cakes, it suddenly slides down, letting a man through to the water, by opening a hole not much larger than himself. Of course Lumley was well aware of this danger—hence the debate with himself, or rather with his judgment.
“It looks solid enough,” said Lumley.
“Looks are deceptive,” said his judgment.
“Then, it’s rather early yet for the ice to have become quite rotten,” said Lumley.
“So everyone goes on saying, every spring, till some unfortunate loses his life, and teaches others wisdom,” said judgment; “besides, you’re a heavy man.”
“And it is a tremendous long way round by the shore—nearly four times the distance,” murmured Lumley.
“What of that in comparison with the risk you run,” remarked judgment, growing impatient.
“I’ll venture it!” said the man, sternly.