The boys brightened and thanked the railroad men fervently. And then the station-master left the telegraph instrument and came out into the waiting-room.
“It’s all right. I’ve put ’em on as far north as Yorkvale, and if he’s still on the yacht they’ll find him, I guess.” He turned to the conductor and added in lower tones: “Gregson, at Lorraine, says he’ll see that a party goes down right away; says he doesn’t believe a yacht could pass there to-night, as the river hasn’t had time to freeze much since they quit cutting at about four.”
The conductor nodded. From far off came the long, shrill blast of a locomotive whistle, and the men drew on their coats, and presently, followed closely by Carl and Trevor, left the station.
There was a flood of yellow light on the rails to the north, and the next instant the fast freight thundered by them for half its length, the brake shoes rasping deafeningly against the wheels. The matter was soon arranged, and Trevor and Carl found themselves sitting in the strange little caboose about a tiny stove that was almost red-hot, and telling their story to two of the train crew. And then, almost before they knew that they had got well started, the train slowed down, and they were tumbled out into the snow at the Hillton crossing, and, shouting their thanks after the scurrying car as it romped off again into the darkness, they took up the last stage of their journey. But now, aside from the anxiety they felt as to Dick’s fate, they were fairly comfortable and contented; and the prospect of supper—for it seemed to them that never before in the history of the world had two persons been so hungry—allowed them to view their coming interview with the principal with something approaching equanimity.
Half an hour later Professor Beck was speeding northward in a buggy behind the fastest horse in Watson’s stables, and Trevor and Carl, subdued and anxious, were eating as though their lives depended upon it in the deserted dining-hall. And afterward Trevor donned his ridiculous red dressing-gown and sat in front of the study fire for hours, listening anxiously for sounds on the stairs that would tell of Dick’s safe return. Sleep, despite his best endeavors, besieged him constantly, and now and then he dropped off for a minute or two, only to reawake with a start and rub his smarting eyes confusedly.
“I wish Muggins was here,” he sighed. “It wouldn’t be so lonely.” Then the clock gathered its hands together at the figure XII, and Trevor crept sleepily but protestingly to bed and dropped into heavy slumber the moment his head touched the pillow.
Once—it seemed as though it must be almost daylight—there were disturbing sounds in the bedroom, and Trevor turned over with a groan, and, even while he was asking himself what the noise meant, went off to slumber again. When he awoke in the morning, and the happenings of the previous evening rushed back to memory, he sat up suddenly with a wild, anxious look toward the neighboring bed, and a deep sigh of relief and joy escaped him. For Dick’s tumbled head lay on the pillow, and Dick’s hearty snores made music in his ears.
In the afternoon the crew of The Sleet, including Stewart, were gathered about the hearth in Number 16, listening breathlessly to Dick’s narrative.
“My, but that water was cold!” Dick was saying. “And deep, too. It seemed as though I never would stop going down. You see, I was so surprised that I just let myself go, and never thought of struggling for a long while. When I did, it took me so long to reach the surface again that I hadn’t any breath left in my body. I got hold of the edge of the ice and tried to pull myself out, but it was only about half an inch thick, I guess, and broke right off every time, and down I’d go again, over my head, maybe. Finally I stopped that and managed to keep my head out. It was as dark as Egypt by that time, but after awhile I caught sight of The Sleet just a few yards away, sticking up into the air like a big triangle. It was on its side with one runner ’way under the water. Farther off I could make out three black hulks of things that I concluded were ice-houses, and Professor Beck says that’s what they were. Of course, when I saw the yacht I knew that I was all right; all I had to do was to keep on breaking the ice until I reached it. But I was so plaguy cold, and my teeth were chattering so, and my clothing was so heavy that it wasn’t very easy after all. But after a while I found something that wasn’t ice; it was the sail, and it was lying flat over the water and broken ice. It sagged down with me after I managed to get onto it, but held me all right, and I crawled along it until I reached the—the—what do you call it, Carl?”
“Boom?”