Oars? Yes, — slung under the thwarts, — a pair of short sculls, worn and split, but with work in them still. There they hung ready, — and a rusty boat-hook, besides.
“Find the thole-pins. Bill, while I cut a plug for her bottom out of this broomstick,” Wade said.
This was done in a moment. Bill threw in the coats.
“Now, together!”
They lifted the skiff to the gangway. Wade jumped down on the ice and received her carefully. They ran her along, as far as they could go, and launched her in the sludge.
“Take the sculls. Bill. I’ll work the boat-hook in the bow.”
Nothing more was said. They thrust out with, their crazy little craft into the thick of the ice-flood. Bill, amidships, dug with his sculls in among the huddled cakes. It was clumsy pulling. Now this oar and now that would be thrown out. He could never get a full stroke.
Wade in the bow could do better. He jammed the blocks aside with his boat-hook. He dragged the skiff forward. He steered through the little open ways of water.
Sometimes they came to a broad sheet of solid ice. Then it was “Out with her. Bill!” and they were both out and sliding their bowl so quick over, that they had not time to go through the rotten surface. This was drowning business; but neither could be spared to drown yet.
