they started at last. "I can't see fifty feet ahead."
"Nor I, Tom. I really wish we were with Dick and Mr. Barrow."
"So do I, but I guess it's all right."
Forward they pushed, dragging the sled after them. It was rough work, and the ice was often covered too deep with snow to make skating a pleasure.
"It seems to me the river is getting narrower than ever," said Sam. "It's queer, too, for Mr. Barrow said it was quite broad near the lake."
"He said one of the branches was broad, Sam. We must be on a different branch."
"Let us call to them again."
Once more they cried out, at the top of their lungs. But nothing answered them, not even a muffled echo. All was swallowed up in the loneliness of the situation and in the fast falling snow, which now covered even the load on the sled to the depth of an inch or more.
"Come on," said Sam half desperately. "We must catch up to them, sooner or later."
"Perhaps we are ahead of them."
"It isn't likely. Let us go on, anyway."
And on they went, another quarter of a mile. The stream was now broader, and this raised their hopes considerably. But suddenly Tom gave a cry of dismay.
