Dick and his two comrades had been on the way, over the rough road, propelling the heavily laden push cart, from which water now dripped from melting ice.

The boys had built their ice-house, or ice-box, whichever one preferred to call it, and they had stocked it with ice from the cave.

Dick, Dave and Greg had whipped up and down the stream in turn; Tom and Dan had trolled the lake for bass.
As fast as the fish were brought in they were stored on the ice.
After two days of hard fishing the boys arose before four o'clock in the morning, for Dick was now ready to test his venture.
"Stay close by that box, Harry," warned Dick, as he took hold of the handles of the push cart.
"Won't I, though ?" Hazelton demanded.
Dick and Dave trudged onward, taking brief turns at the cart.
Thus they entered the hotel grounds at the rear, continuing until they were close up to the rear porch.

Then Dick ascended the steps and knocked at the door.

As no one answered, he stepped into the corridor.
"What do you want here ?" asked a well-dressed, portly man of fifty, who stepped out of a nearby room.
"I would like to see the manager, or steward, sir," Prescott replied.
"We don't want any help," replied the man.
"I haven't any help to offer, sir," Dick smiled.