Jack hastily clambered up beside him, and above the tree-tops beyond the river he beheld a gray-white cloud.
The boys gazed at one another with paling faces. “What shall we do?” asked Jack.
Alex shook his head. “We might swim the river, and try a dash for it. It is two miles out of the woods, but there might be a chance.”
“We couldn’t do it. We’re too nearly exhausted.
“How about staying right in the river, by the bank?” Jack suggested. “I’ve heard of people doing that.”
“It is too deep here, and it’s awfully cold. We would chill and cramp in no time.
“No; I tell you,” went on Alex suddenly. “We’ll try one of the old tile ovens on the other side of the yard. Perhaps we can box ourselves up in one of them.”
There was no time to lose, for the clearing was now blue with smoke, and climbing hastily to the ground, the boys were again off on the run. They reached the group of round-topped ovens.
A glance showed that their hope was futile. All about the furnaces were thickets of dead weeds, and a short distance away, and directly to windward, was a huge pile of light brushwood.
Promptly Alex turned back. “We would be smothered or roasted in five minutes,” he declared. “No. It is the water, or nothing. Perhaps we can work it by floating on a log.”