"Keep heart," called out Jo. "I think you are gaining."
"In which way?"
"We're a few inches nearer the southern shore than we were—"
"When we started," interrupted Ned, showing a very modest estimate of his own abilities in the way of managing the craft.
Jo rose and went to the side of his friend, hoping that he might be of assistance, for he clearly needed something of the kind.
"Let me take hold," said he, "or we are stuck, as sure as you live."
"I don't see how you can be of any help to me," answered Ned, who would have been glad enough to receive it, if there was any direction in which it could be applied. "You notice the trouble is that it so deep just here, and the current so strong, that it bothers a fellow amazingly. Now, if you will get overboard and push the stern you will do some good, but I don't see that you are going to amount to anything in any other way."
"Then I rather calculate that I won't amount to anything at all," was the sensible conclusion of the other, as he returned to his place beside his sister and the Mohawk.
There was reason to believe that the labors of Ned Clinton were not entirely in vain, even though they were not encouraging. The boat was certainly progressing, and the height of the pole above the water showed that the depth was less by a few inches than before.
It must continue to diminish, and as it did so, the boatman would gain, in a corresponding degree, his control of the craft. A few minutes after this the truth became apparent to Ned himself, and he toiled all the harder, until he regained, in a great degree, his mastery over the scow.