Looking in that direction, the people saw some one three quarters of
a mile away standing on a floating field of ice in the river. He had
a large farm-basket strapped upon his shoulders, while in his hands he
held a plank.

As the ice-field upon which he stood neared another, the youth ran
forward, threw his plank down, making a bridge of it, and crossed to
the farther field. Then picking up his plank, he waited for a chance
to repeat the process.

As he thus drifted down the river, every eye was strained in his
direction. Presently some one cried out: "It's Joe Lambert; and he's
trying to cross to the island!"

There was a shout as the people understood the nature of Joe's heroic
attempt, and then a hush as its extreme danger became apparent.

Joe had laid his plans wisely and well, but it seemed impossible that
he could succeed. His purpose was, with the aid of the plank to cross
from one ice-field to another until he should reach the island; but
as that would require a good deal of time, and the ice was moving down
stream pretty rapidly, it was necessary to start at a point above the
town. Joe had gone about a mile up the river before going on the ice,
and when first seen from the town he had already reached the channel.

After that first shout a whisper might have been heard in the crowd on
the bank. The heroism of the poor boy's attempt awed the spectators,
and the momentary expectation that he would disappear forever amid
the crushing ice-fields, made them hold their breath in anxiety and