eased out upon the road leading
to the lake. Two hours' work with levers and wedges had adjusted the
machine until the spurred wheels had the requisite "bite" upon the ice.

At dark on the day of the "launching" Parker gazed off across the level
of the lake, and said to his men:

"To-morrow, boys, the Spinnaker Lake Air-Line Railroad will run its
first train to Po-quette Carry. No freight this time. I want to lay
out my landing up there. So all aboard at nine o'clock. Three cars," he
said, pointing to the new sleds, "and a free ride for all of you, with
my compliments."

An honest cheer greeted his jocular announcement, and that evening
all the Sunk-haze male population assembled round the stove in the
post-office to discuss the matter. When the evening was yet young, a
red-faced, red-whiskered man, snow-shoes on his back and fresh from the
up-country trail, came and warmed himself, listening with interest to
the lively discussion.

"So that's what that thing is down on the lake?" he said, at last.
"'Twas dark when I came by, and I swan if it didn't scare me. Want to
know if that's the engine we've been hearin' about up our way?"

His tone was significant.

"Where ye from, stranger?" asked one of the loungers.

"Number 7 cuttin'."

"Oh, one of Gid Ward's men?"

"Yes."

"Say, has Ward heard about the railroad preparations?" inquired the
postmaster. This query had been propounded with eagerness to every new
arrival from the woods for the past three days.

"Yes."

The interest of the men quickened, and they crowded round the newcomer.

"What does he say?"

"He hain't said anything special yet, so I heard," replied the man.
"Hain't done anything but swear so far, so they tell me."

"Has he--has he started to come down?"

"Feller from up the line telephoned across the carry that a streak of
fur, bells and brimstone went past his place, and so I should judge that
Colonel Gid is on the way down," drawled the man.

"An' he'll come across that lake in the morning," said the postmaster,
jabbing his thumb over his shoulder, "scorchin' the snow and leavin' a
hot hole in the air behind him."

The door opened and Parker came in to post his letters. The crowd
gazed on him with new interest and with a certain significance in their
glances that caught his eyes. The postmaster noticed his mute inquiry,
and remarked:

"News from the interior, Mr. Parker, is that you prob'ly won't have any
ice in Spinnaker to-mor