The wind kept Tom awake that night. It roared over the forest and thrummed on the stiff canvas flaps. On the cot opposite him his father slept profoundly rolled in his blankets, but Tom could not settle himself to rest. His mind dwelt on the raft. They had thought of launching it the next day, but this would be out of the question unless the wind went down. It would be impossible to float it down the lake in the face of that gale.
He wondered if there could be any danger of damage as it lay at its mooring. At last, unable to rest, he got up and looked from the tent. It was after eleven o’clock. The night was warm and not very dark. Not a man was in sight. The fires, which had burned low, threw off gusts of fizzing sparks in the wind. A high sea was crashing on the shore, but he could make out the dark expanse of the raft, rising and falling, but apparently secure.
Somewhat reassured, he went back to his cot and lay down again, leaving the lantern burning. He did not undress and lay awake for some time longer, but at last he grew hardened to the roaring of the wind and dozed off. Finally he must have slept soundly, for he wakened with a shock to feel a hand gently gripping his shoulder. Blinking up, he saw Charlie’s battered black hat leaning over him in the dim light.
“You come, Tom. Raft gone,” the Indian said softly.
Tom leaped up with an exclamation. He gave a single glance at his father, who was still sleeping, and bolted from the tent. Outside the water and the wind still roared and crashed; but at the first glance Tom saw in the pale starlight that the raft was no longer there, nor anywhere in sight.
“I wake up—think I hear something,” said Charlie at his elbow. “I go—look. Raft gone.”
Tom rushed down to the landing where it had been moored. Then to his relief he sighted it, a hundred yards from land, a huge expanse like an island, heaving and plunging and drifting out diagonally over the lake.
Tom raised a tremendous shout to alarm the camp, and thought he heard an answer from the tents. The raft must have broken loose in the gale; yet he could hardly understand how that had happened, for six strong ropes had bound it to trees ashore. But Charlie picked up the slack of one of the ropes that was trailing in the wash of the waves and held it silently under his eyes. Tom gasped. The end was not frayed; it was cut squarely off.
“Cut!” he exclaimed.
“I think mebbe so,” said Charlie. “That man come back, I guess. We git him this time, mebbe.”