Fishing through the Ice 



389 



yell darted ahead at his topmost speed. Every man 

 guessed what he meant, and, like so many horses at 

 score, we wheeled and broke away with him as he 

 flashed past. It was well that we did. All eyes 

 turned toward our fire, and we knew that our work 

 was cut out for us. Halfway between our position 

 and the shore a long line of white spray was splash- 

 ing above the ice, and we knew that the floe had 

 parted and was drifting. 



It was a hard drive against the wind, and for half 

 a minute or more the steel blades rang in furious 

 cadence. The head man marked the narrowest 

 place in the broadening fissure, and shouting, 

 "Jump! Swim! Get there!" swerved a trifle and 

 shot at it. He rose like a steeplechaser, cleared a 

 seven-foot crack, and landed fair and true. Rip-zip 

 rip-zip ! an instant's scared glance at the increas- 

 ing space, and one after another we set our teeth 

 and raced down to the take-off and leaped as we had 

 never leaped before. Two fell on landing, but all 

 got over dry and safe, though with quivering mus- 

 cles and thumping hearts. It was an extremely close 

 thing, and next morning that parted floe was piled 

 in small fragments by a furious gale somewhere 

 about the mouth of the grand Detroit River, miles 

 to the westward. 



