all parts of this side of the pond, and just out
there where that pole inscribed "Dangerous"
had tumbled over on its side, there was no one.
What fools the people must be! Are they
afraid? Why, the frost has lasted a fortnight,
and any one with eyes in his head would
see that that "dangerous" pole has been left
there, simply because the proper authorities have
forgotten to take it away.

Arrested and balked at every stroke as I had
been all the morning, the sight of the clear
place, where I could practise unmolested, was
inconceivably attractive. I was very young, not
more than sixteen or seventeen, and my taming
days had not begun. Here was good ice in
front, and nobody to knock up against me, and
behind was bad ice and a crowd of skaters.
Pooh! No danger! That board has been
there ever since the frost set in.

Most people who have had anything to do
with ice will be aware that that substance is
subject to several different kinds of cracks.
There is the melodious, ringing, wholesome
crack, which ice of any strength is liable to,
and which is not indicative of danger; there is
the sharp, rattling crack of thin ice, which
certainly does show mischief at hand, but which is
not perfectly inconsistent with security; and,
lastly, there is a crack which he who hears
will know by instinct to be a cry of warning,
but one which is uttered generally, just too
late.

I had not philosophised much on cracks, or,
indeed, on anything else, at the time I am
writing about. I had my skates on, I saw
before me a sheet of ice, and I knew that the
frost which was making my fingers tingle, dated
from a fortnight back. Such ice too! So
black, and so smooth! A few more strokes, and
what a sweep I shall have over its polished
surface! a few more—Hark! is that man with
the life belt on, calling out to me? Yes. What's
that!

A crack such as I had never heard before,
and which sent the knowledge — not the
apprehension, but the certainty—into my soul
that I was going through the ice. There was
not a clear second of time between the crack
and the time when the ice gave way under me,
and I was in the water. The cruel, treacherous
ice broke away as I held to it with my hands,
gave with every touch, and made the space
which I had broken away, so large, that water
was all around me except just in one spot to
which I held, but held gently, seeing the thinness
of the edge against which my breast was
pressing, and knowing that if I moved, this last
fragment might go too, and that then I must
inevitably sink I knew not how far: there was
no ground beneath my feet.

How difficult, too, to keep still: the excessive
cold of the water making my chest heave
convulsively, and causing me to gasp for breath.
How difficult to keep still, with the wicked
water sucking at me and pulling and drawing
me under, until I felt the toes of my skates
scraping the inside of the ice!

By this time, the words that head this paper
were ringing through the air, and the cry of
"Man in!" reached me from many voices. I
hardly expect it to be believed, but I have
a vivid impression that in that hour of extreme
danger, and with death so near, it was a gratification
to me to hear that cry, and — I was not
seventeen, remember — to be called a "man."
I had so often writhed under the insult of
being called a "boy" by my elders, that this
cry of "Man in!" was, in a dim way, a sort of
compliment to me. As I lay in the water with
my arms stretched out over the piece of ice on
which my life depended, I watched the preparations
which were going on for my rescue, with
an eagerness which none can know but those
who have been in some such position. There
was no one near me. The machinery of the
Humane Society was all far removed from that
place. I was skating alone when I dropped
through, and had no friend upon the ice.

Still, that lifting and sucking action of the
water beneath me — pulling and drawing at me
always. The man with the life-belt, with the long
ice-ladder on wheels with the air-barrels at one
end of it, and a drag fastened to the side, is
hastening towards me from the other side. Can I
hold on till he comes? The cold seems arresting
my very life within me. Am I going to die?
My young life — is it at an end already? Oh
God! why did I ever do anything wrong!
The man with the ice-ladder on wheels, has
broken in at fifty yards' distance, and cannot
get any nearer to me — the ice is rotten all
around. Who can come near to help me? A
circle far, far off, of frightened people gazing at
me — I cannot see their faces — they are making
signs to me, but I cannot understand; they are
calling out to me, but I cannot hear. And
what would they say at home if they could see
me now? Would the icemen try harder to save
me, if I had a brother there among the crowd to
urge them on? A brother! This piece of ice is
giving way; the water, which is sucking at me
more and more, has got into my clothes; I am
lower down than I was, and the ice to which I
cling, is sinking! The man who was coming
to save me is still in the hole, and other men
are trying to get him out. Every one of
those Latin exercises, done with the help of a
key — and praises lavished on me for them — I
lied about them, and said I had no help — I
shall die — and the crowd — and that snow figure
which the boys have built up is like the clown I
saw last night in the pantomime and the water
is creeping over this piece of ice, and my
arms are wet — and the ice will be under soon
—and the men with the strange machinery
are standing aloof, and cannot get to me, and
some are running round the bank, and they have
ropes — and one has got a drag — but I am sinking
now, my hair is wet, and the water pouring
down my collar — and when we were at Naples,
my father asked me to go out with him one day
and to stay with him while he sketched — and a
dog would have gone — but I had some plan of
my own, and would not go — and he sighed