Before his companions could prevent him, he dashed forward, rifle in hand. He sped swiftly over the first stretch of ice. With an agile leap, he cleared the gap of rushing water, and landed on firm ice beyond.
Suddenly Sparwick crashed through the fringe of bushes. He was attired only in a red flannel shirt. His face was blue with cold, and his beard was a frozen mass of icicles. He glared at the daring lad, and uttered a hoarse cry. In one hand he held a great clod of frozen snow. He drew it back and let fly.
The whole thing was so sudden that Hamp did not have time to lift or use his rifle. The heavy missile struck him forcibly on the breast. He reeled to one side and slipped on the smooth ice. With a piercing cry, he plunged into the swift water.
Sparwick instantly vanished behind the bushes. Well for him that he did so. Had he lingered but a moment Brick or Jerry would have shot him in their wrath.
Finding the ruffian out of reach, the two boys turned their eyes anxiously on the open channel.
Hamp’s head and shoulders bobbed to the surface half-a-dozen feet below where he had fallen in. He still retained his hold on the rifle. He made a gallant struggle for life, and succeeded in reaching the rim of ice nearest his companions. He threw the rifle forward, and clung tight.
“Help! help!” he cried. “I’m nearly played out, boys. I’ll have to let go.”
But Brick and Jerry were prompt to the rescue. With great strides they crossed the ice, and soon had Hamp safely beside them. They dragged him over to the bank, and dropped him in a clump of bushes. He was blue and speechless with cold.
“Bring the sleds here, Brick,” cried Jerry. “Quick, while I make a fire. Hamp must have dry clothes and blankets right away.”
Brick dashed off at full speed. When he returned, a moment later, Jerry had heaped up a pile of brush and twigs. Hamp was taking off his dripping clothes as fast as his numbed fingers would allow.