“And that is what I did, too,” added the stout youth. “But I don’t blame Phil any more than I blame myself,” he added, hastily.
“Nor do I,” said Ben. “We made a big mistake. We should have stood our ground, like you and Roger did.”
“Well, you come back with me, and we’ll face this to a finish,” went on our hero. “But, of course, we’ve got to find Phil first.”
Only the camp-worker slept well that night. The boys were restless, and several times one or another got up, to go to the doorway and listen, thinking he had heard a call from Phil. But the calls were only imaginary, and morning dawned without a sign of the missing one.
It was still raining, but not so hard as before, and by eight o’clock the clouds broke away and the sun commenced to shine. All had an early breakfast, from the stores brought along, and then the party hurried down to the river.
That the dam above Camptown Falls had broken was plainly evident on all sides. During the night the river had risen seven or eight feet, bearing on its bosom many trees and bushes, with here and there the remains of camps that had been located on low ground. Moosetail Island had 245 been swept from end to end, only the higher spots escaping the flood. The waters were now going down, the rush from the broken dam having spent itself.
The boys gave scant heed to the destruction effected by the rain and the broken dam. All their thoughts were centered on Phil. What had become of their chum? Was he dead or alive?
“I wonder if it wouldn’t be best to get over to the island and look around?” suggested Dave. “Most likely he went there—thinking you would be at the cabin.”
“But how are we to get to the island?” asked Buster. He had no desire to fall into the turbulent stream again.
“Oh, the water is going down rapidly, Buster. I think we can make it by noon.”