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Updated: May 17, 2025
It was a broken oar with a deep fresh gash in it. Wade knew his mark, the cut of his own skate-iron. This busy oar was still resolved to play its part in the drama. The round little skiff just bore the third person without sinking. Wade laid Mary Damer against the thwart. She would not let go her buoy. He unclasped her stiffened hands. This friendly touch found its way to her heart.
Away and away over the open ice, unmarked before by skate-iron and looking black as hardened unpolished steel, stroke for stroke, stroke for stroke, the wind whistling by them, and the ominous cracking forgotten as they dashed on past reed-bed and bog-clump, keeping to the open water where they had so often been by punt. "His reed-stack must be on fire," panted Dick as they dashed on.
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