Next morning a dull, leaden canopy of cloud stretched across the entire heavens. The leafless branches cracked and snapped in an icy blast that made the boys shiver and shake until a roaring fire had been kindled.
Shortly after breakfast they put on their skates and started off. The crisp whirr of the steel floated off on the breeze, as, with Hackett in the lead, they glided swiftly over the ice.
"Smoke coming from the cabin over the way, fellows," cried Bob.
"Those jokers must be home, then," remarked Nat. "When we come back, let's drop over and ask 'em about those snowballs—just for fun."
"Sure we will," agreed Hackett; "and about those marks on the snow, too."
In order to escape the icy blasts out in the middle of the lake the boys followed the numerous bays and indentations along the shore. In a few minutes they rounded a point and came in sight of a camp. It was built against the base of a steep hill which was practically bare of trees.
Before a great fire Tim Sladder, Billy Musgrove and Bowser were sitting, the two former with their faces turned toward the lake.
"Hi, hi!" yelled Billy Musgrove, wildly waving his arms.
The skaters swung in to the shore, and walked over the crust of snow to the fire.
"Glad to see you," greeted Tim Sladder, heartily. "Lie down, Bowser! He's all right, fellers, don't be afraid. Have to be a little careful with him at first, that's all. What do you think of our camp—slick, eh?"
"Bully!" responded Sam Randall. His eyes had taken in a hut of substantial dimensions, built on the same principle as their own.
All crowded around the cheerful fire, Tom Clifton keeping on the opposite side from the redoubtable Bowser.
But the big dog seemed to be in a very friendly humor. He ambled lazily from one to the other, looking up into their faces with a peculiarly mild and benign expression.
"Say, Tackett," observed Billy Musgrove, with his ever-present grin, "I—"
"My name is Hackett—John Hackett."
"Oh, it's all the same. Didn't you say that you wanted to see some sport, eh? Well, me and Tim can show you some."
"That's what we want to see."
Musgrove laughed. He pointed to the steep hill back of the hut, then at several strips of wood lying close to the fire. They were about seven feet in length, four inches wide and at one end curved up to a sharp point. In the centre of each was a loop.
"Do you know what them things is, Wackett?" he asked.
"They are called skees, I think," answered Hackett, stiffly.
"That's right," said Musgrove, with a gratified look. "My uncle's a Swede," he went on, "an' over in his country them things is used a lot. Talk about scooting—just watch Tim an' me."
"Going to coast down that hill on those things?" inquired Tom Clifton, in surprise. "It's risky! You might break your neck."
Musgrove's only answer was a loud laugh. He picked up his pair of skees, Tim Sladder following suit.
"Stay here, Bowser!" commanded the latter, shaking his finger in the big dog's face. "Lie down!"
"Don't need to budge from the fire, Wackett," remarked Musgrove. "You can see the whole shooting match from here. Come on, Tim. Is that skating going to be done this morning, Wackett?"
"Whenever you like, Billy Mushroom," returned Hackett, with a steely glare in his eye.
The two boys began slowly climbing up the hill. It was admirably suited to their purpose, being steep and covered with a smooth coating of snow and ice. At the base, it rounded gently upward to a hillock, while the level stretch before it was only here and there covered with underbrush.
"I've often read about that sport," commented Dave Brandon. "Over in Sweden, they take some daring jumps with those things."
"You wouldn't catch me trying it," put in Tom Clifton, nervously.
Hackett sniffed. "It's easy," he asserted. "Must be, if a fellow with a face like Musgrove's can do it. What's the matter with that brute?"
Bowser, who had been intently gazing after his master's form, uttered a series of dismal cries, rising in a sort of crescendo, until the last note was of such a mournful and peculiar loudness that Tom Clifton was positively alarmed.
"Maybe he's going mad," he suggested, brilliantly, edging away.
Dave Brandon laughed. "Tim Sladder has been trying to fool us," he declared. "The dog's as tame as a kitten, and, besides, is nearly as old as the hills—here, you Bowser—come here!"
The big animal obeyed. He fell at the feet of the stout boy and looked plaintively at him. Dave seized his jaws, and opened them wide; not a tooth was visible.
"What did I tell you?" he laughed.
"That settles it, to my mind," said Hackett. "I'll bet those chaps are the ones who threw the snowballs."
"Hi, hi!" yelled Musgrove, from the top of the hill. "Hi, hi! Here I go!"
The boys saw that he had fastened a skee to each foot, and, with a long balance pole in his hand, stood ready to make the descent.
For a moment, he almost disappeared over the crest of the hill. Then the boys saw him moving forward, and the next instant, with arms outstretched, he shot down over the icy surface of the declivity at terrific speed.
"My eye!" cried Hackett.
"Christopher!" chimed in Nat, while various exclamations came from the others.
Musgrove seemed to fairly fly, gathering speed as he passed down the long slope. Breathlessly, the boys watched him skimming nearer and nearer. Like a flash, he mounted the small hillock at the base of the hill—the onlookers saw him shoot off in the air for a distance of fully fifteen feet, then strike the level stretch and skim over its surface at lightning speed.
"Here I come!" yelled Tim Sladder. "Whoop—look out!"
With the swiftness of flight, he flashed down the hill, struck the mound, and went speeding after his companion.
"My eye! That's what I call sport!" exclaimed John Hackett, enthusiastically. "I'd like to take a fling at that myself."
"Better not, 'Hatchet.' Maybe it isn't as easy as it looks," spoke up Dick.
"Wouldn't catch me doing it," added Tom Clifton.
"Why not try it on a hill that isn't so steep?" asked Bob Somers.
John Hackett glanced from one to the other with a look of supreme scorn.
"Listen to 'em talking like a lot of scared cats," he sniffed. "Where's your sand, Somers? Do you suppose I'd let little 'Mushroom' think he has me bluffed? Well, I guess not!"
Tim Sladder and Billy Musgrove, with flushed faces and sparkling eyes, now approached.
"Hey, what do you fellers think of that?" demanded the latter. "Ain't it bully sport, eh?"
A chorus of enthusiastic responses showed the boys from Stony Creek what their visitors thought of skeeing.
"Say, 'Mushroom,' just lend me those skees, will you?" asked Hackett, eagerly.
"What?"—Billy Musgrove's pudgy face began to expand into a broader smile—"what?" he repeated. Then he drew back his head, and laughed heartily in his own peculiar fashion.
"Well," snapped the thin boy, "what is there so funny about it?"
"Why—say—if you lose your balance, Sackett, you'll find out—eh, Tim?"
"It's kinder risky fer a feller what ain't never tried it," admitted Sladder.
"It's easy enough," insisted Hackett, half angrily, the opposition having aroused all his combative spirit. "Anybody can do it. Slip off those boards, 'Mushroom,' and hand 'em over."
"Huh!" exclaimed Musgrove. "If you take a header, don't blame me. 'Tain't nothing, eh?" and with a much injured expression, he passed over the skees.
"Ha, ha!" laughed Hackett. "After I start the ball rolling, the rest of you fellows will want to take a crack at it, too. Just watch me slide. Your turn next, Tommy Clifton."
And with these words, the tall youth started confidently up the hill.
"He's a sassy feller, but he's game, all right," grunted Musgrove, admiringly.
With a wild yell that would have done credit to an Indian, Hackett called attention to the fact that he was ready to make the descent.
"Hacky's all right!" laughed Nat. "Here he comes!"
With the speed of the wind, slim John Hackett came skimming down the incline. Half bent over, and balancing himself with the pole, he approached the hillock.
Eagerly the boys watched him.
"Going like an express train!" said Tom Clifton, breathlessly. "Ah—"
A half suppressed cheer came from the boys. Hackett rose from the hillock, and shot forward. It was a tremendous dash through space and the group almost held their breath.
Then a cry of dismay was heard.
Hackett, as he alighted on the level stretch, lost his balance, his feet flew from under him—wildly he swung his arms.
A cry of alarm, swelling into a confused medley of sound, came from the watchers. They saw Hackett lurch on his side, and, lying prostrate, go spinning along on the ice and snow.