"Nice fellows," commented Tom Clifton, "and a good idea of theirs about signals."
"Everybody seems to think we need help," observed Bob, good-humoredly. "Between guardians and smoke signals we ought to be all right. Who wants to go after fish, fellows?" he asked.
"I do," said Sam Randall.
Provided with a couple of spears and an axe, besides their guns, the boys made their way toward the lake, and followed the shore to the south. At length, reaching a point where a number of scraggly willows leaned over the frozen surface, Bob stopped.
It was a dreary, barren spot. A fallen bough of yellow leaves rustled musically in the wind and the trees sighed and shivered. A few tufts of forlorn, withered grass still lingered, as a reminder of the season past.
"Looks like a good place, Sam," he said.
"You try here, and I'll go along a bit further," was the answer.
Bob soon chopped a square hole in the ice, then handed the axe to Sam, who proceeded on his way.
With spear poised for action, Bob waited. It was cold work, and he began to wish that he had gone shooting, instead. Then, quick as a flash, his spear descended through the hole.
"Missed!" he muttered, regretfully, drawing it back by means of the attached rope.