The next day we tried the sails and it didn't take me very long to learn how to steer the device. The wind had changed again and this time blew up the canal. We took the line of least resistance, and went skimming up the ice lane like birds for several miles before we realized how far we were getting away from home. As we rounded a bend in the canal, much to my astonishment, I saw just before us the bridge at Raven Hill, eight miles from our town. We started to go back, but the wind was too strong for us, and there wasn't much room in which to do any tacking; nor could we make any progress when the sails were folded. I began to get extremely tired and rather exasperated at Bill for not having thought of the return trip before he led me such a hot pace up the canal. But Bill was getting tired, too.

"Look here, Jim," he said, "we haven't covered a mile, and I'm worn out."

"Why in thunder didn't you think of this before we started?" I returned.

"How much money have you with you?" was the reply.

"What's that got to do with it?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. How much have you?"

A careful search of my dozen odd pockets netted the sum of twenty-seven cents.

"I have fifty-nine," said Bill, "and that makes eighty-six altogether, doesn't it? Isn't there a railroad depot near here?"

"There is one at Raven Hill, and the next is at Lumberville. That is about eleven miles from home."

"Well," said Bill, "at three cents each per mile that would amount to sixty-six cents. Let's sail on to Lumberville and then take the train back."

On we sped to Lumberville, only to find that the next train was not due until noon, and it was now just half past ten.

Time never hung heavy on our hands. Out on the river we espied an island. I had heard of this island--Willow Clump Island, it was called--but had never been on it; consequently I fell in with Bill's suggestion that we make it a visit. Owing to the rapids which separated the island from the Jersey shore, we had to go up stream a quarter of a mile, to where a smooth sheet of ice had formed, over a quiet part of the river; thence we sailed down to the island along the Pennsylvania side.

"What a capital island for a camp," cried Bill, after we had explored it pretty thoroughly. "Have you ever been out camping?"

I had to confess I never had, and then Bill gave me a glowing account of his experiences in the Adirondacks with his uncle the year before, which so stirred up the romance in me that I wanted to camp out at once.

"Shucks!" said Bill, "We would freeze in this kind of weather, and besides, we've got to make a tent first."

We then sat down and made elaborate plans for the summer. Suddenly the distant sound of a locomotive whistle interrupted our reveries.

"Jiminy crickets!" I exclaimed. "That's the train coming through Spalding's Cut. We've got to hustle if we are to catch it."

We were off like the wind, and a merry chase brought us to the Lumberville depot in time to flag the train. We arrived at Lamington at half past twelve, a trifle late for dinner, rather tired and hungry, but with a glowing and I fear somewhat exaggerated account of our adventure for the credulous ears of the rest of the boys.