Of course, both Jennie and Nancy could swim; but swimming with one’s clothes on, from the middle of Clinton River to the shore, would be no small feat.
And there wasn’t time to throw off much of their clothing, for the skiff was sinking under them. Once the bunch of rags had been forced out of the hole where the plug had been, the water spurted in like a miniature fountain.
The boat began to swing in the current, too. They had both drawn their oars inboard and the craft drifted at the mercy of the river.
“What shall we do?” gasped Jennie, again. “We’re go-ing-right-do-own!”
“Not yet!” cried her chum, tearing off the little coat she wore.
In a moment Nancy doubled up the sleeve and thrust it into the hole in the bottom of the boat. She forced it in tightly, and as it became wet and more plastic, she rammed it home hard.
“But that won’t last long,” objected Jennie.
“The water’ll force it out again. And what will we do with the water that is already in here?”
Indeed, the girls were barely out of the wash of the water, and their feet and ankles were soaking wet.
They dared not move suddenly, either; the gunwales of the boat were so low that, if it pitched at all, the river would flow over the sides.