Wellmere was a large lake some five miles long and a mile across. In times of frost it not unfrequently became partially frozen, but owing to the current of the river which passed through it, it seldom froze so completely as to allow of being traversed on skates. This, however, was an extraordinary frost, and the feat of the adventurer on New Year’s Day had been several times repeated already.
The Wildtree party found the ice in excellent order, and the exhilarating sensation of skimming over the glassy surface banished for the time all the unpleasant impressions of the walk. It was several years since Jeffreys had worn skates, but he found that five minutes was sufficient to render him at home on the ice. He eschewed figures, and devoted himself entirely to straightforward skating, which, as it happened, was all that Percy could accomplish—all, indeed, that he aspired too.
It therefore happened naturally that Scarfe and Raby, who cultivated the eccentricities of skating, were left to their own devices, while Jeffreys, accompanied of course by Julius, kept pace with his young hero for the distant shore. It was a magnificent stretch. The wind was dead, the ice was perfect, and their skates were true and sharp.
“Isn’t this grand?” cried Percy, all aglow, as they scudded along, far outstripping the perplexed Julius. “Better than smoking cigarettes, eh, old Jeff?”
Jeffreys accepted this characteristic tender of reconciliation with a thankful smile.
“I was never on such ice!” said he.
“Looks as if it couldn’t thaw, doesn’t it?” said Percy.
“It’s better here in the middle than nearer the shore. I hope those two won’t get too near the river, it looks more shaky there.”
“Trust Scarfe! He knows what’s what! I say, aren’t he and Raby spoons?”
“Mind that log of wood. It must be pretty shallow here,” said Jeffreys, his face glowing with something more than the exercise.