SCOOTERS.

“Hello, Dutchy!  What in thunder have you got there?” It was Bill who spoke.  We were on our way home for the winter holidays, and had been held up at Millville by Reddy Schreiner, who had informed us that Dutchy was down by the river with the boat to give us a sail up to Lamington.

A vision of a fleet ice boat skimming up the river at express train speed swam before our eyes.  But the next moment, as we turned the corner into River Street, we were surprised by the sight of our old scow just off the pier at anchor, and in open water.  It was rigged up with a jib and mainsail, which were flapping idly in the wind.  It had also been altered by decking over the top, with the exception of a small cockpit, evidently for the purpose of keeping out the water when she heeled over under the wind.  We were disappointed and quite annoyed at not finding the ice boat on hand; furthermore, our annoyance was considerably heightened by Dutchy’s broad grin of evident delight at our discomfiture.  “The river wasn’t all frozen over,” he explained, “and we couldn’t bring the ice boat down, so we rigged up the scow and she came down splendidly.”

A Sail in the Scow.

There was nothing to do but to jump in, though I, for one, would have taken the train in preference had there been one inside of two hours.  Dutchy, however, seemed to be in a surprisingly good humor, and kept up a lively chatter about things that the club had made in our absence.  The skis, which have already been described on page 42, had been built under Reddy’s guidance, and they had already used them on Willard’s Hill, coasting down like a streak and shooting way up into the air off a hump at the bottom.  Then there was the toboggan slide down Randall’s Hill, and way across the river on the ice.

Our Craft Strikes the Ice.

[Illustration:  A Sail on the Scooter Scow.]

Dutchy talked so incessantly that we hadn’t noticed the field of ice which we were nearing.  Just at this point Bill turned around with an exclamation.

“Here, Dutchy, you crazy fellow, where are you going to?  Hard to port, man—­hard aport—­or you will crash into the ice!”

But Dutchy only grinned nervously.

“I tell you, you will smash the boat!” Bill cried again, making a dive for the steering oar; but just then the boat struck the ice, and both Bill and I were thrown backward into the bottom of the boat.  But the boat didn’t smash.  There was a momentary grinding and crunching noise, and, much to my surprise, I found that the old scow had lifted itself clean out of the water, and was skating right along on the ice.  Then Dutchy could control himself no longer.  He laughed, and laughed, as if he never would stop.  He laughed until the steering oar dropped from his hands, and the old scow, with the head free, swung around and plunged off the ice ledge with a heavy splash into the open water again.  Then Reddy, who was almost equally convulsed, came to his senses.  “Now you’ve done it, Dutchy; you’re a fine skipper, you are!  How do you expect to get us back to shore again?” The steering oar was left behind us on the ice, and there we were drifting on the open water, with no rudder and no oar to bring us back.