“Skating, hey?” she sniffed. “You’ll go through the ice, I’ll be bound.”
The boys knew from experience that it was always best to placate Aunt Gertrude.
“We’ll try not to, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank assured her.
“You’ll try not to! A lot of good that will do. If the ice isn’t strong, all the trying in the world won’t keep you from going through it. And the ice isn’t strong. I’m sure it isn’t. It can’t be.”
“The fellows have been skating on Willow River for more than a week now.”
“Maybe so. Maybe so. They’ve been lucky, that’s all I can say. You mark my words, that ice will break one of these fine days. I only hope you boys aren’t on it when it does.”
“I hope so too,” laughed Frank, drawing on his gloves.
“It’s no laughing matter,” persisted Aunt Gertrude gloomily. “Well, I suppose if you will court death and destruction, an old lady like me can’t do anything to stop you. Although you’d be better off at home studying. Run along. Run along.”
“Goodbye, Aunt Gertrude.”
“Run along. Be home early. Don’t skate too far out. Don’t get lost. Don’t get caught in a snowstorm. I’m sure there’s one coming up. I know the signs. My lumbago is troubling me again today. Don’t forget to come back in time for tea.”
Aunt Gertrude’s favorite word was “don’t” and she persisted in treating her nephews as though they were but a grade advanced from kindergarten. Mrs. Hardy was out for the afternoon and in her absence the worthy spinster rejoiced in her opportunity to exercise her authority. When she had exhausted her store of admonitions, the boys departed, and she watched them from the door with gloomy forebodings as to the ultimate outcome of their skating trip. Aunt Gertrude was a pessimist of the first water.
When the Hardy boys reached the foot of the street they found Chet Morton, rotund and jovial, and Jerry Gilroy, tall and red-cheeked, awaiting them.
“Just going to start without you,” declared Chet, swinging his skates.
“We had a letter from dad and we were so interested in reading it that we mighty near forgot about the trip,” confessed Frank.
“Where is he?”
“Out in Montana, in a mining camp, working on a case.”
“Gosh, he’s lucky!” said Jerry enviously.
“I’ll say he is,” agreed Frank. “Joe and I have just been wishing we could be out there with him.”
“Well, we can’t have everything,” Chet said cheerfully. “Come on—I’ll race you to Willow River.”
He dashed off down the snow-covered street, the others in close pursuit. The race was of short duration, for Willow River was some distance away, and the boys soon slowed down to a walk. At a more reasonable gait they continued their journey, and within half an hour had reached the river, now covered with a gleaming sheet of ice. In a few minutes the lads had donned their skates and were skimming off over the smooth surface.
The banks of the river were covered with snow and the trees along the shore were bare and black. Above the hills the sky was of a slaty gray.
“Looks like snow,” Frank commented, as they skated on up the river.
“Oh, it’ll blow over,” answered Chet carelessly. “Let’s go on up to Shallow Lake.”
“We don’t want to be away too long. It’ll be dark before we get back.”
“We can skate up there and back in a couple of hours. Come on.”
It was a brisk, cold afternoon and the boys did not need much urging. Shallow Lake was back in the hills, but the boys made such good time over the glassy surface of the river that it was not long before they left the farm lands behind.
Frank Hardy cast an anxious glance at the sky every little while. He knew the signs of brooding storm and the peculiar haziness above the horizon indicated an approaching snowstorm. However, he said nothing, in the hope that they would be able to reach the mouth of the river again before the storm broke.
It was four o’clock before the Hardy boys and their chums reached Shallow Lake. It was a picturesque little body of water and the ice shone with a blue glare, smooth as glass and free of snow. It was a natural skating rink, and Chet Morton gave a whoop of delight as he went skimming out upon it.
The boys enjoyed skating on the lake so greatly that they scarcely noticed the first few flakes of snow that drifted down from the slaty sky, and it was not until the snowfall became so heavy that it almost blotted out the opposite hillsides that they thought of going back.
“Looks as if it’s settling down for the night,” Joe remarked. “We’d better start back before we get lost.”
“Might as well,” agreed Chet Morton, with a sigh. “I wish we’d come out here this morning. I’d like to skate here all day.”
With Frank Hardy in the lead, the boys began to make their way toward Willow River, where it left the lake. They were about half a mile out on the open expanse of ice and the snow was now falling heavily. At first the soft white flakes had merely drifted down. Now they came scudding across the ice, whipped by a rising wind.
“It’ll be harder getting back,” Frank said. “The wind is against us.”
The wind was indeed against them and it was rising in volume. It came in quick, violent gusts, storming sheets of snow down upon them, snow that stung their faces and erased the scene before them in a white cloud. Then it blew steadily, with increasing force. The storm moaned and whistled about them. They could scarcely see one another, save as dark, shadowy figures skating steadily on toward the gloomy line of hills that rose from the haze of storm.
“Why, this is a regular blizzard!” Chet Morton shouted.
As
