Commodore Jones’ little fish-market and boats-to-hire establishment, a few rods below, also was anchored by a rope. The water was within a couple of inches of its platform; but nevertheless, river threatening each moment to carry him away, here sat the commodore, smoking his pipe.
The boys strolled to a point on the embankment opposite him.
“Good-morning, commodore,” they called.
“Mornin’, young fellers,” responded the commodore. “Better not come crost them planks,” he admonished, indicating the narrow bridge which connected his quarters with the land.
“We don’t want to,” replied Ned. “How’s the water? Still rising?”
“No,” answered the commodore. “She ain’t raised any since midnight. I look for her to begin to go down pretty soon, now. She’s fallin’ up north.”
“Do you think the embankment will hold?” asked Hal, anxiously.
“Certain, ’less we have an east wind,” assured the commodore, between his puffs. “East wind would pile up the waves an’ no knowin’ what would happen.”
“I guess we’ll go out in our boat,” announced Ned.
“Well, it’s there with them others under the lee of the warehouse,” said the commodore, with a jerk of his pipe toward the cluster of skiffs tied along the embankment, in the angle formed by the end of the steamboat building, and thus shielded from the current. “Reckon I wouldn’t take no chances though, if I was you. River’s full of drift-wood.”