This was at once agreed to, and nine names went into Andy’s cap. Harry fumbled around, and finally drew a slip out and read it aloud. “The _Icicle_! That suits me. Who wrote it down?” “I did,” said Jack. “It’s a good name for an iceboat,” put in Boxy. “Hurrah for the Zero Club and the _Icicle_!” he shouted. And three cheers were given with a will. Directly after dinner the four boys shoved the clumsy craft down to the ice, and made a trial trip on her across the river and back and two miles up the shore. The _Icicle_ behaved very well, and Jack declared that they would have no trouble in reaching their destination on her. As soon as the trial trip was over they separated to get their various things, for they were determined that all should be in readiness for the start Monday morning at sunrise, and that nothing was to be done on the Sabbath. Blankets, skates, and other things were taken down to the meeting-room in the Bascoe barn. Andy and Jack had shotguns of their own, and Boxy had a rifle. Harry had no firearms, but borrowed from his father a small shotgun. Each of the boys also provided himself with fishing lines, and Jack took along a spear for spearing through a hole in the ice. “The sled will be pretty well heaped up, I’m thinking,” remarked Boxy, who was doing the packing. “Won’t it tip over if it’s too highly packed?” asked Andy. “We’ll put a bent stick across the top,” said Jack. “That will keep it from tipping only so far.” “We want to make sure that nothing is forgotten,” said Harry. “It would be fine to get miles from any house, and then find that you had forgotten something you wanted the worst way.” “I’ve got the list, and I’ve checked off the articles,” returned Andy. “I’ve even got the forks and knives and spoons down.” “Have you got a big carving-knife? We can’t do without that.” “By gracious! I never thought of that!” exclaimed Andy, his face reddening. “We wouldn’t be able to cut up a bear even if we shot him.” “I’ve brought a hunting-knife,” put in Boxy. “See here--a regular Mohawk scalping steel. Wah! wah! Me take white man’s scalp and dry him hair for smoking tobac!” he went on, dancing around and flourishing the knife in true Indian fashion--according to a dime novel he had once had the patience to wade through. “Beware of Bloody Ben of Digger’s Gulch!” shrieked Andy, in reply, and he caught up his gun. “He is out to avenge the murder of his twenty-fo-o-ur bro-o-thers!” “Here, Andy, don’t point that gun at any one,” put in Jack, sternly. “It isn’t loaded, Jack.” “Never mind, put it down. There are too many accidents of that sort, where somebody didn’t think the gun was loaded.” Andy put down the firearm, and packing was resumed, Jack going into the house to obtain a carving-knife for the trip.