“Boys,” said Marmaduke, with great animation, “I can tell you how to do that; tie a handkerchief, or something else, to one of the sculls!”
“Good for you, Marmaduke!” Charles cried, with delight. “You are a genius!”
“Yes, Marmaduke, you’ve hit on the very thing!” said Steve. “Now, whose is the largest?—Mine is;” and two minutes later Steve’s handkerchief was fluttering as a flag.
“I—I was just thinking about that, too;” Jim stammered.
A hearty laugh—the first since they had left their swimming-place—burst from the boys at this.
The little white flag on the oar was romantic; it inspired hope in them; they became fearless, even merry. Each one was sufficiently susceptible of romance to place the greatest confidence in the saving powers of that little handkerchief. It was medicine to Jim’s troublesome disorder, while to Marmaduke it was everything. He sat bolt upright, devouring it with his eyes, his heart going at high pressure. Environed with romance, with danger on every side, he made an idol of the little square of linen, which, but for his sapience, would not have left its owner’s pocket. What did he care for danger? Though they should float for hours, this would eventually save them. Thus he sat, gazing eloquently and lovingly on the white flag.
Did we say white? Alas! it was not white! Two days previous to this, Steve had made it serve him for a towel.
Meanwhile, the breeze increased to a gale, and the punt was tossed about in a manner to make even Steve fidgety, while it made pigeon-hearted Jim draw groans expressive of unutterable agony. The sinking sun was hidden by black clouds; the storm was upon them. In fact, their situation was really becoming desperate.
“Why is it so dark, boys?” Jim articulated faintly.