“We’re bushed,” Mr. Livingston declared, after the effort to attract attention had proved futile. “Let’s try to sleep. In the morning, we can find a way to get help or to rescue ourselves.”
Following Phillipe’s example, Ken and Jack sought shelter. The night was bitterly cold. Nevertheless, in their thickly lined sleeping bags, they spent fairly comfortable hours.
When they awakened at dawn, Mr. Livingston had the fire built, and was preparing a hot breakfast.
Stretching their cramped limbs, Jack and Ken went down to the river to wash.
As they bent down to dash the icy water on their faces, the torrent rushed past, foaming and hissing.
“This stream is plenty swift,” Ken remarked. “Too deep to wade across, and a fellow couldn’t hope to swim it, either.”
“Rapids and whirlpools below here,” Jack reminded him. “Rhodes told me that. He probably was telling the truth too.”
“It’s darn funny War and Willie don’t take any interest in what became of us,” Ken went on, scanning the rugged shoreline. “Wouldn’t you think they’d see the smoke from our fire?”
“Probably not up yet,” Jack rejoined with forced cheer. “You know how War is—with no one to pull him out of bed, he’d sleep until noon.”
“Even so, he and Willie must have realized that something went wrong with our plans. Common sense would tell ’em we’re in trouble.”