Then, through the wind and the storm, came a faint hail. Prince eagerly pursued his barking. Chet tried to reply to the hail, but his voice was only a hoarse croak.
“We’ve got to keep on—we’ve got to keep on,” muttered the lad, dragging the sled slowly.
His submersion in the icy water had been a serious matter. His limbs were too heavy, it seemed, for further progress. He scarcely knew now what he was doing—only the tolling of the chapel bell seemed to draw him on—and on—and on——
The dog had disappeared. Carolyn May was weeping frankly. Chet Gormley was pushing slowly through the storm, staggering at each step, scarcely aware in what direction he was heading.
CHAPTER XXIII—HOW TO WRITE A SERMON
Joseph Stagg heard the dog barking first of all. Rightchild and the cook were directly behind him, and when the hardware dealer bore suddenly off to the right they shouted after him.
“If the ice is breaking up, Joe, that’s where she’ll give way first—in the middle of the cove,” Rightchild said.
“And the boy wouldn’t know any better than to come right up the middle,” Mr. Stagg declared.
“You’re right,” agreed the cook.
“Besides, there’s the dog. Listen!”