“Jump!” shouted Joe.
“Stay where you are!” Frank yelled. There was still a chance. He bore down on the tiller. The iceboat swung into the wind just as the other craft went flashing past. They could see Chet, a look of comical fear and amazement on his face, frantically trying to get the boat under control.
Out on the open ice, Biff had scrambled to his feet and was madly pursuing the fleeing craft. Chet managed to get the boat back against the wind, it turned wildly and raced directly at Biff. Then Biff turned and fled. He might have been run down had he not leaped to one side just in time. As the boat was speeding past he watched his chance and jumped.
Biff clambered over the side and crawled over Chet, who gladly moved over to allow him to take the tiller. In a few moments the boat slackened speed. Shortly afterward, Biff had the situation well in hand, turned the boat about, and drove alongside the Hardy boys.
“Are you satisfied?” said Biff, glaring at Chet.
“Must have been something wrong with the steering gear,” Chet explained weakly.
“Steering gear, nothing!” snorted Biff. “Something wrong with the fellow who was steering, that’s all. After this, I’ll take charge of the boat myself.”
“You’re welcome. I’ve had plenty.”
“Thank goodness!”
“What was the big idea?” shouted Frank. “Trying to wreck us all, Chet?”
“No harm done. We’d better forget it,” muttered Chet sheepishly. “I can’t seem to get the hang of this steering business. I’d rather be just a passenger, anyway.”
“That suits everybody,” growled Biff. “When I go out iceboating I don’t care to spend half of my time chasing the boat.”
Joe snickered. The recollection of Biff slipping and sliding across the ice in pursuit of the runaway craft, and then slipping and sliding with the boat in pursuit of him, appealed to Joe’s sense of humor. That snicker was like a match touched to gunpowder, for Frank also laughed, then Chet, and finally Biff himself had to grin. So, in high good humor again, the lads got back into the boats and resumed their journey toward the village.
They reached the little place about ten o’clock and made their way up through the snow to Amos Grice’s store, where they found the proprietor sitting beside the stove, munching crackers from the barrel, just as they had last seen him.
“Howdy, boys!” he greeted them. “Come to pay me a call? Sit down and make yourselves at home. Help yourselves to the crackers. I keep ’em here to sell, but somehow it seems I never sell any, although the barrel keeps gettin’ empty all the time just the same. I’ve been always intendin’ to put a cover on that there barrel but I just can’t seem to get around to it.”
“We found our supplies, Mr. Grice,” Frank told him.
“You found ’em, eh? Where were they?”
“Somebody had hidden them on us, as a joke.”
“Just this mornin’ I was thinkin’ about you lads,” said Amos Grice. “There’s been a couple of thieves around here, too, and I was wonderin’ if it was the same ones that swiped your supplies.”
“Thieves!” exclaimed Chet.
“Yep. They paid me a visit last night. Stole a lot of my chickens.”
The boys looked at one another. Amos Grice laughed. “Not the kind of thieves you’re thinkin’ about,” he remarked. “These ain’t two-legged thieves. Four-legged ones. They mighty near cleaned out my henhouse. Seven fine fat chickens I lost.”
“Foxes?” ventured Joe.
Amos Grice nodded.
“Foxes! A couple of ’em raided the hen roost last night and made off with seven chickens and I never even caught a sight of ’em at it. If I only had time to leave the store I’d certainly set out after ’em. Still, they may come back, and if they do they’ll find me settin’ up waitin’ for ’em with a shotgun.”
“Perhaps they have a den just outside the village,” Biff said.
“I know they have. I ain’t the first man to lose chickens here this winter.”
“Did they leave any tracks?” asked Frank.
“Plenty of ’em. Come with me and I’ll show you.”
Amos Grice led the way out of the store toward the henhouse in the back yard. A few chickens, the only ones remaining of the flock, were pecking at some grain. The old storekeeper showed the boys two distinct trails in the snow, leading away from the henhouse, up toward the hill at the back of the store.
“That’s the way they went,” he said. “With my chickens. I tell you, I had a mighty good mind to close up the store and start after ’em right away. I’d like to get a shot at the rascals.”
“Joe and I have a couple of small rifles down in the iceboats,” Frank said. “Perhaps we could try our hand at shooting the foxes.”
“Good idea!” approved Chet. “I wish I had a rifle.”
“You can have mine,” declared Amos Grice. “I have a couple of guns up in the store that I’ll let you have. And if you can drill them two foxes I’ll be mighty grateful to you.”
The Hardy boys and their chums were at once enthusiastic over the idea of a foxhunt. Amos Grice provided Chet and Biff with rifles while Frank and Joe hastened to get their own weapons. Amos Grice even insisted on lending them his dog.
“If there’s any foxes within five miles, that dog will dig ’em out,” he said. “Only be sure and not shoot my dog.”
“We’ll be careful,” promised the boys.
“Just follow those tracks in the snow and you’ll come right to the den, I’ll bet a cookie,” declared the old man.
“Let’s go!” shouted Joe. “We’ll bring back your foxes, Mr. Grice.”
“Sure will,” added Chet jubilantly.
The boys started off through the deep snow, following the double trail up the hillside.
The dog was a lanky, mournful
