“Should be right about here,” she murmured.
Snapping on a flashlight she moved slowly backward and forward, studying the ice beneath the circle of intense light.
“Cold place for a ghost,” whispered Mark.
“Ten thousand people have skated over it and cut it down. Can’t tell. Maybe it’s gone,” Florence said under her breath, but still she kept up the search.
“Water’s getting cooled off in the kettles. Ghost won’t mind it at all,” whispered Mark.
Pausing on tiptoe for a moment, Florence fixed her eyes on a certain spot. Then, bending over, she brushed the ice clear of frost.
“There!” she announced. “There! That’s it.”
“Right here,” she pointed, motioning to Mark. “Cut here. No—let me have the ax. You might go too deep.”
With measured and cautious swings she began hacking a circle in the ice some two and a half feet in circumference.
Mark’s amusement had vanished. Curious as the others, he bent over and watched in awed silence. Eight inches of solid ice had been chipped up and thrown out when they began noticing its peculiar blueness.