“Now!” he shouted. “Out you come.” And out he came.
Weak from excitement and exhaustion, he lay there for a time motionless.
“This won’t do,” Johnny exclaimed at last. “We’ve got to get going. Here,” he dragged the sodden mackinaw from his cousin’s shoulders, then put his own sheep-lined coat in its place. After putting his own dry mittens on Lawrence’s hands, he pulled him to his feet.
“It’s you for skates and the ice, then home as fast as ever you can.” He pushed him on before him.
As his skates touched the ice Lawrence felt new warm blood racing through his veins. He was off with the speed of the wind. And after him, with a moose-hide sack dangling at his side and filled with one very angry silver fox, came his loyal, anxious yet joyous friend and cousin, Johnny.
The day, for this part of the world, was not extremely cold. Lawrence’s trousers froze into pipe-like forms, but his sturdy, youthful body resisted the cold and sent him speeding on his way.
Dropping down on the river bank at last, they dragged off their skates to take the usual short cut through the timber.
As he passed the carefully built shelter beside that narrow stream, Johnny recalled the note tacked to a post and wondered afresh whether the mysterious Bill would arrive, just as the note said he would, on July 1st.
“Who do you suppose he left that note for?” he exclaimed suddenly.
“Haven’t—the—slightest-notion,” Lawrence panted, still racing along. “One—thing—is—sure. I’m—going—to—be—there—when that day comes.”