The dog had disappeared. Carolyn May was weeping frankly. Chet Gormley was pushing slowly through the storm, staggering at each step, scarcely aware in what direction he was heading. CHAPTER XXIII—HOW TO WRITE A SERMON Joseph Stagg heard the dog barking first of all. Rightchild and the cook were directly behind him, and when the hardware dealer bore suddenly off to the right they shouted after him. “If the ice is breaking up, Joe, that’s where she’ll give way first—in the middle of the cove,” Rightchild said. “And the boy wouldn’t know any better than to come right up the middle,” Mr. Stagg declared. “You’re right,” agreed the cook. “Besides, there’s the dog. Listen!” Prince’s barking was unmistakable now. The other men realised what the sound must mean. It was as convincing as the chapel bell; and that kept on as steadily as a clock pendulum. The men with Mr. Stagg having spread out on the ice like a skirmishing party, now closed in towards the point from which sounded the dog’s barking. The hardware dealer shouted as he ran. He was the most reckless of them all, and on several occasions came near to falling. The snow over the ice made the footing treacherous, indeed. Suddenly an object appeared in the smother of falling snow. Hoarsely the dog barked again. Mr. Stagg shouted: “Hey, Prince! Prince! Here we are!” The mongrel made for the hardware merchant and almost knocked him over. He was mad with joy. He barked and whined and leaped upon the man; and the sight of Joseph Stagg down on his knees in the snow trying to hug the wriggling dog was certainly one to startle his neighbours. “Show ’em to us, good dog!” cried Uncle Joe. “Take us to ’em! Where’s Hannah’s Car’lyn? Show us, boy!” “That dog’s a good un,” declared Rightchild. “Now you’ve said something,” agreed the eating-house cook. Prince lapped Mr. Stagg’s face and then ran off through the falling snow, barking and leaping. The men hurried after him. Twice or thrice the dog was back, to make sure that he was followed. Then the men saw something outlined in the driving snow. “Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe!” The child’s shrill voice reached the hardware merchant. There was poor Chet, staggering on, leaning against the wind, and pulling the sled behind him. “Well, you silly chump!” growled Joseph Stagg. “Where’re you going, anyway?” “Oh, Uncle Joe!” wailed Carolyn May, “he isn’t anything like that, at all! He’s just the very bravest boy! And he’s all wet and cold.” At the conclusion of this declaration poor Chet fell to his knees, and then slipped quietly forward on his face. “I vum!” grunted the hardware dealer, “I guess the boy is all in.” But Chet did not lose consciousness. He raised a faint murmur which reached Mr. Stagg’s ears. “I—I did the best I could, Mr. Stagg. Take—take her right up to mother. She’ll fix Car’lyn up, all right.”