Camping on the St. Lawrence; Or, On the Trail of the Early Discoverers

by Everett T. Tomlinson

His decided tone could not conceal his anxiety, but his suggestion was so manifestly practical that the oars were at once taken up, and, with the little canoe in tow, they resumed their way up the river.

The waters were calm now, so calm that scarcely a ripple could be seen. Lights began to appear in the distant cottages, and the darkness steadily deepened. Still the boys rowed swiftly on, unmindful of the long and wearisome day which had gone, and thinking only of their missing friend. Bert was keeping a careful lookout, though just what he or his companions expected to see was not evident.

“I think, fellows,” said Bert, at last, “you’d better row farther in toward the shore of the islands. The storm came from the west, and if Ben landed anywhere, it would be likely to be on one of the islands. We can go up a mile or two, and then if we don’t see or hear anything we can cut across to the Bay. He may have been picked up by some boat and carried back there, you know.”

The direction of the skiff was quickly changed, for the advice seemed good, though no one replied to Bert’s words, and soon they were skirting the islands. Again and again they stopped and shouted together, but only the echoes along the shore or the calls of the night birds responded.

The slight hope they had cherished was almost gone now. The empty canoe was a constant reminder of their loss, and the longing in their hearts was fast becoming changed to despair. Not even the paddle had been found, and the fear that the canoe had been capsized in the squall, and its occupant thrown into the water, was becoming almost a certainty.

“There’s one thing, fellows,” said Bob, at last, striving somehow to keep up their courage, “and that is, that Ben, though he is the most unlucky fellow in some ways that ever lived, in others is the most lucky. Just think of the scrapes he’s been in since we came down here, and yet he got out of every one. If it had been any one of us, we’d have gone straight to the bottom of the St. Lawrence, but Ben, somehow, manages to come right side up with care, and I’ll not give up yet.”

Bob endeavored to speak confidently, but his words failed to cheer his companions. The lights of Alexandria Bay could now be seen in the distance, and the end of their attempt to discover the missing Ben had almost come. Failure was to be stamped on them all, they thought; and though they still continued to row, the dejection of all three was becoming more and more apparent.

“We might as well strike across for the Bay, now,” said Jock, at last, pausing as he spoke, and looking sadly above him in the twilight.

“Yes, I think we’d better go over there,” replied Bob. “Of course Ben may have gone back to camp long before this, but as we are so near, I suppose we might as well go on and do what we can.”

They were only about twenty yards from the shore of one of the little islands now, and as they grasped their oars again to carry out Jock’s suggestion, they were startled by a shout that came from a projecting point in advance of them.