Some time elapsed before another chance presented itself. When, at length, a shadowy form flitted by, Bob again took aim, and sent the spear through the opening.
"But I got one that time," he thought, pulling in the rope. "Great luck—a good-sized pickerel!" he exclaimed, as the prize came in view. "A few more like this will do."
He detached the fish, laid it to one side and was about to continue his occupation when a hail came from Sam Randall.
Turning quickly, he saw the boy wildly gesticulating.
"Wild geese!" came a faint cry.
"By George, he's right!" exclaimed Bob, in excitement, "and what's better, they are coming this way."
In their peculiar V-shaped formation and flying low, a flock of geese were speeding in an easterly direction.
Bob Somers' interest in spearing fish suddenly vanished. Quickly seizing his gun, he made a dash across the ice, and raised it just as the leader veered sharply toward the right. Two reports rang out in quick succession. Each charge found a victim. Two birds came tumbling down, while the others, with cries of alarm, flew swiftly away and were out of range of Sam Randall's gun.
"Hurrah!" cried Bob. "Two of 'em—not bad—and big, plump fellows, too."
"That's great, Bob!" exclaimed Sam, as he came up. "Only wish I'd had a chance, too; but never mind—better luck next day."