Gist sprang, Robert the Hunter sprang. An instant more, and Washington’s head appeared just below the raft.
“Here, major!”
The water there was clear of floes. He swam a few strokes, and managed to grab the edge of the raft. With the raft canted dangerously again they hauled at him and he kicked and scrambled, and dripping wet he came aboard. Wah, but that had been a narrow escape!
“I lost my pole,” he gasped.
“No matter,” said Gist. “Thank Heaven you got out. But we can’t make it tonight, major. We’ll be wedged fast, and freeze to death. The best we can do is to land on that little island right ahead and build a fire.”
Already they had been carried down stream a mile; in the gloom a bare little island, cloaked with only a few trees, cut them off from the farther shore. The raft drifted in to it, while Gist worked with his pole.
“When it touches, jump,” he bade. “I can’t hold it long.”
The raft grated against the edge of the ice that bordered the island; pitching their packs out they all followed, leaping over the piled-up cakes; and away floated the raft. They were prisoners, but they had escaped the greedy river.
Nevertheless, it was a bad fix. The first thing to do was to build a rousing fire. Washington’s teeth chattered and his clothing rasped as he moved briskly, to keep from freezing. The night was due to be the coldest yet.
It proved a bare little island indeed, of scarcely any brush, and with only two or three trees, and the highest part was not much above the river.