Thad was wondering whether any damage could have been done when that last hard knock came against the timbers of the boat. He did not know what they could stand in the way of resistance. They might be old, and weather-beaten, ready to yield if harshly treated.
And so, as his comrades sang on at a vociferous rate, Thad was trying to discover whether there were any signs of the boat foundering, which was apt to happen in case of a puncture below the water line.
Of course he could not make absolutely sure, but so far as he was able to tell there did not seem to be anything wrong; the boat floated as buoyantly as before the collision.
When all of the boys found themselves getting more or less hoarse from their strained singing they stopped; but Bumpus by this time felt so heartened that his next move was to clutch his beloved bugle, and proceed to run the gamut of everything he knew, from military calls to “’Way Down on the Suwanee River,” “Old Black Joe,” and a dozen other melodies that he could execute with considerable feeling and sweetness on the silver-tongued instrument.
In this fashion possibly another half hour passed. When Smithy asked for the time, and they heard Allan say there was still a terribly long spell ahead of them, the scouts were at a loss to know just what to do in order to forget their troubles, and make the minutes seem to pass quickly.
They were spared the necessity of inventing some way, for just then there came one of those sudden halts in the forward progress of the drifting shanty boat.
“Another snag!” shouted Giraffe, as though the frequency of these mishaps was beginning to take their terror away.
“But notice that this time we don’t seem to tilt over to one side; and it feels firmer, too!” Step Hen wanted them to understand.
“Then chances are we’re stuck here for a while, till the river rises, and sets us free!” commented Davy.
Allan and Thad exchanged significant looks.