“Well,” Bill said suavely, “of course it does not matter much about your drowning yourself, but it would be a pity to smash up that canoe.”
“It’s an old one,” Merton laughed, “and I’ve used it long enough.”
“I’ll go with you,” Scott announced resolutely; “that’s no place for a man to go alone.”
“Oh, I am not going alone. Our whole boat is agreed on it.”
“Then we’ll all go,” Bill said, “you fellows have no monopoly on the sand in this lake.”
So it came about that the rising sun found the five canoes threading their way cautiously out among the sunken trees toward the open water. The sea was a little choppy, but the boys figured that they could make it across before the wind came up. Once in the deep water they drove steadily ahead, eager for the shelter of the opposite shore. It was a tremendous lake and seemed, now that they were in the middle of it, larger than it had before.
At nine o’clock the wind began to rise perceptibly. They were still some miles from shore and getting into the submerged timber again. There were many narrow escapes, but the light canoes seemed to bear charmed lives and grazed impudently past those cruel black stubs.
The boys had missed so many of them that they became indifferent to the danger. Suddenly there was a vicious rending sound as a sharp dead tamarack pierced the bottom of Morris’s boat as though it had been an eggshell, narrowly missing Bill Price, who was third man in that boat. Quick as a flash Bill broke off the stub with one savage kick and pressed a tent fly tightly down on the break.
“Need help?” Merton called as the other canoes closed in.
“Not yet,” Bill answered quietly. “Now, Morris, you and Steve paddle for shore as tight as you can go while I hold down this pack and bail for it.”