After leaving Clifford they saw not a single skater. It seemed as though they owned the whole river, up and down. The musical murmur of the steel runners on the ice was the only sound to be heard.
"Say, a fellow could easily imagine that he was away off in some wilderness, if it wasn't for the lights along the shore in places," suggested the skipper of the little Humming Bird, as they moved majestically along.
"Or the rumble of that freight train pulling uphill over yonder," said Frank.
"Oh! that could be called the roar of distant surf on the beach. It sounds like it, all right," remarked his chum.
"That's a fact, it does. Makes me think of the last time I was spending a summer on the beach. Careful now, Lanky; there's Rattail Island ahead of us. Which channel are you going to take now?"
"Same as before. You wouldn't find a ripple of a zephyr on the east side, and we'd have to paddle past with our feet," answered the skipper, heading his gliding craft toward the point in question.
"I can see a light on the shore of the island. Yes, it's a fire, all right. That must be Bill cooking his iish supper," remarked Frank, as they swung around the point of the island, and began to move between it and the main shore.
