There were a good many remarks made, but quite a squad of boys set off after a fence rail, while Bill Thatcher called out:
"Stand still right there in the middle. It wouldn't take much to tip her over."
"Rock her," said Pat Farrel. "Mebbe you kud rock her right back to the shore."
"When an iceberg gets loose," said Bill Thatcher, "it just floats away. It doesn't go back to the pole and freeze on again."
"Boys," exclaimed Put, "they'll have to bring a good long rail. The water's getting wider and wider."
So it was, and somehow it had a look of being colder and colder, and it looked both wider and colder to the boy on the iceberg than it did to any of the other young bears alongshore.
The cake was a wide one, and it was floating pretty well, but Put Griddings should not have taken Pat Farrel's advice about rocking it.
There was a sudden dull cracking sound right under the unsteady feet of Put Giddings. In a second or so more there were four or five small cakes of ice on that spot of water instead of one big piece, and right in among them was the cap of an unlucky boy, and from under the cap there came a loud and astonished yell.
"The iceberg's busted!"
"Put's broke in!"