But even after Dick had seized Roy firmly by the hands and was himself lying half in the water it was no easy task for the others. Chub had Dick by the ankles and Sid held onto Chub, but it was slow work getting back to solid ice. Yet in the end they succeeded, and Roy, dripping and unconscious, lay safe.
“Is he dead?” whispered Sid brokenly.
“Not a bit of it,” Dick panted. “But we’ve got to get him home mighty quick or he will catch cold and have pneumonia and all sorts of things.” As he spoke he peeled off his sweater and wrapped it around Roy’s shoulders. “Let me have yours, you fellows,” he commanded.
“Look!” cried Harry. “There’s the ice-boat!”
Chub’s signaling was unnecessary, however, for the two occupants of the boat had already seen the catastrophe and were headed toward the group. Harry’s sweater, as well as Chub’s and the two worn by Sid, were thrown over Roy, and Dick and Chub were rubbing and slapping him when the ice-boat rounded to and came up into the wind with flapping sail.
“Want any help?” asked one of the occupants.
“Yes, we want to get him home right away,” answered Dick. “Can you take him aboard and get him to the Ferry Hill landing?”
“Sure! You pile out, Bob. Lift him in here, will you? There isn’t much room, but I guess you can get him on somehow. That’s the ticket. Shove her nose around, Bob. All right! I’ll meet you over there!”
The sail filled and the boat, with Roy lying like a log in the tiny cockpit and Joe Thurston crouched beside him, leaped away. The others, shouting their thanks to the marooned Bob, who, having no skates, decided to stay where he was until his chum returned to pick him up, hurried after the boat. At any other time they would have felt the cold terribly, deprived as they were of their sweaters, but just now they were far too excited. All talked at once as they raced along and Harry was forced to listen to much enthusiastic praise of her pluck and readiness. When they reached the landing the boat was up on the beach and Joe Thurston had lugged Roy into the boat-house, where, warmed by the piled-up sweaters, he was beginning to take an interest in life once more. He waved a hand at them as they entered, but he still looked pretty white and weak.
“Well, you’re a fine one, aren’t you?” asked Chub in simulated disgust. “What were you trying to do? Commit suicide?”