"That's what it is at home," said the Poker, "but not here, my lad. Here an icicle is a bicycle with runners instead of wheels." "But what makes it go?" demanded Tom. "Pedals, of course," returned the Poker. "You just tread away on the pedals, as if you were riding on a bicycle, and the chain sets a dozen ice picks revolving that shove you over the ice like the wind. Oh, it's great sport!" [Illustration: "YOU SEE, IT'S THIS SHAPE."] Another rush and roar of a passing toboggan caused them to pause in their conversation for a moment, and then Tom turned his attention to the diagram Righty had drawn on the snow. "Suppose you didn't stop at B and go back--what would happen?" he asked as he considered the possible dangers of this wonderful new sport. "You'd fall over the edge, of course," said the Poker. "I see that," said Tom. "But if you fell over the edge what would become of you? Where would you land?" "If you had luck you wouldn't land anywhere," said Righty. "The chances are, however, you'd fall back on the earth again. Maybe in Canada, possibly in China, perhaps in Egypt. It would all depend on the time of night." "And wouldn't you be killed?" Tom asked. "Not if you had your rubbers on," said Righty. "If you had your rubbers on it would only jar you slightly. You'd just hit the earth and then bounce back again, but there's no use of talking about that, because it never happened but once. It happened to a chap named Blenkinson, who took an Oscillator that hadn't any brake on it. He was one of those smart fellows that want to show how clever they are. He whizzed down one side and up the other, and pouf! First thing he knew he was flying off into space." "And what became of him?" demanded Tom. "He had the luck not to hit anything, but he suffered just the same," said Righty. "He flew on until he got to a point where he was held fast up in the air by the force of gravity of 1,600 different planets, and he's there yet. At a distance he looks like another new star, but when you get close to him he's nothing more than just a plain, everyday Smarty." "I should think he'd starve to death," said Tom, as he reflected on the horrid fate of Blenkinson. "He would if he had any appetite," said the Bellows. "But he hasn't. He's so worried all the time that he can't eat, so he gets along very well without food." "Let's quit talking now," suggested the Poker, "and get a ride, eh?" "I'm ready," said Tom eagerly. "Where do we start?" "There's the station up on the hill. It's only about 700 miles. We can walk it in a year," said Righty. "I move we take this cloud that's coming up," said the Bellows. "I'm winded." Tom looked in the direction in which the Bellows had pointed, and, sure enough, there was a cloud coming slowly along, shaped very much like a trolley car, and on the front of it, as it drew nearer, the lad was soon able to discern the funny little figure of a Brownie acting as motorman. "Why, it's really a trolley!" he cried.