[CHAPTER XIV]
DICK TELLS HIS STORY
When Carl and Trevor, bruised and breathless, found their feet and stared about them, The Sleet was already a whisking gray blot in the twilight. Trevor obeyed his first impulse and limping up the ice in the direction of the disappearing boat, called frantically: “Dick! Dick!” Then, realizing the absurdity of his chase after a thing that was probably reeling off half a mile every minute or so, he stopped and came dejectedly back to where Carl was silently rubbing a bruised thigh.
“Dick will be killed!” he cried hoarsely. “What shall we do?”
“Get back to the academy,” said Carl.
“What good will that do?”
“They can telegraph up the river and get some one to look for him. I wonder how far from Hillton we are?”
“I don’t know,” answered Trevor, “but let’s hurry. Which way shall we go?”
“Across the river to the railroad track. Maybe, Trevor, there’s a station between here and Hillton; there ought to be, eh?”