“O dear!” he said piteously, “my feet are soaking wet in the bottom of this nasty boat; and I’m cold; and I’m catching cold; and I’ve got the chills.”
“Well, then, set on to your feet and bale her out,” Steve growled. “I guess we don’t want to drown in this old coal-slide of a punt.”
Heaving an agonizing sigh, Jim snatched up the floating oyster-can, and fell to work. Poor boy! his toil was monotonous and painful.
“Is it worth while to row?” Charley asked, not hopelessly, but speculatively.
“Perhaps not, but it will keep up our spirits, anyway,” Will said. “Steer it, George,” he added. “It would seem like giving up all hope, if we don’t do something to help ourselves.”
Foolish fellow! he could not realize that it was out of their power to help themselves.
“This is a sorry ending for our little trip, and things look pretty black for us,” George observed, “Charley, how do you suppose we can be rescued?”
Thus appealed to, Charles assumed an air of importance, and said knowingly, “If this wind should get much worse, we shall be driven away out into the lake, and perhaps lost; unless—” here he hesitated.
“Unless what?” Jim demanded, with much emotion.
“Well, a passing schooner might pick us up, but there is none in sight.”