“Then you had better fill up well,” laughed Barton Coils. “Here you are, smoking hot! Who’ll have the next?” Forks and knives were clattering right merrily for the next ten minutes. The buckwheat cakes were washed down with hot coffee and cream, and soon all were more than satisfied. Then came a farewell shake of the hand with the boathouse keeper, and a final inspection of their traps. “Now we’re off!” cried Jack. “Hurrah for the tour of the Zero Club!” “Hurrah! hurrah!” cried the others, and Barton Coils joined in, waving his towel over his head as he did so. Off they started, through the little town. The last house was soon left behind. Before them lay nothing but hills, woods and a frozen lake. Their outing in the ice and snow had truly begun. CHAPTER XII. JACK BECOMES LOST. “Dis am de most glorious trip wot ever was, by golly!” cried Pickles, as he shoved on ahead of the rest, dragging the sled behind him. “Dis coon is werry glad he is alibe jess about now, boys!” And in the exuberance of his spirits, Pickles broke out into an old darky refrain about the history and death of a wonderful “Blue-tail Fly,” the chorus to which was so catchy that they were soon every one of them singing it. “I’m glad he came along,” whispered Jack to Harry. “He’ll make days we can’t go out seem shorter.” “So am I, Jack, Pickles is just the fellow for this crowd.” The boys had received close directions concerning the best route to pursue to reach the lake, and they were careful that no mistake should be made. They followed a road almost half through what was called Jackson’s Run, and then struck off across a number of open fields to where a tiny stream ran at the foot of a long hill. “That creek empties into Rock Island Lake,” said Boxy. “I know, for I was up here once in the summer, and my uncle told me so.” “Then why can’t we follow the stream until we reach the lake,” suggested Andy. “We could do that if it wasn’t that the stream winds around so much,” put in Jack. “In a direct line the lake is not over twelve miles from here, but like as not that stream would take us thirty or forty miles.” “Not quite as far as that, but still a pretty good way,” said Harry. “I know these creeks around here twist and turn in all directions.” “We’ll stick by the original intention, and be guided by the sun,” said Boxy. “Come on, Harry, I’ll race you to the top of the next hill!” and off he sped, with Harry at his heels. When the top of the hill was reached both boys were well-nigh exhausted, and ready enough to sit down on a fallen tree and wait for the others to come up. “You shouldn’t do that,” remonstrated Jack. “You’ll tire yourselves out before you have covered half the day’s journey.” “And you’ll get sweated and take cold,” put in Andy. “If you feel so frisky, help Pickles with the sled,” went on Jack.