“If we only had the boat we could ferry them off!” he said, and then uttered a loud exclamation.
“A raft! a raft! That’s the thing, Carl. Make a raft!”
“Yes, float ’em across the lake,” cried Carl. “Or up to the island. That’ll be best. Let’s get the logs together!”
Halfway up the lake, barely visible through the smoke, was the little islet. It was barely twenty yards in diameter, but there was nothing on it to burn, and it would be a safe refuge if they could get the bees to it.
Bob had already begun to chop furiously into a dead pine log. There was plenty of timber scattered along the shore, and, better still, there was the lumber and the nails that they had brought for the winter case. Time, only, was lacking.
Both boys rushed about frantically through the smoke. They dislodged the logs that lay nearest the water, hewed off the large limbs, and rolled the trunks down to the shore. Splashing in and out of the shallow water, they succeeded at last in getting half a dozen small tree trunks afloat together. Carl dragged down boards from the lumber pile, and Bob spiked them down with the back of his ax for a hammer.
“We’ll never do it!” Carl choked.
But they hauled in fresh timbers, more boards, and nailed them to the first section. The smoke was growing hotter and thicker; they could plainly feel the fierce breath of the fire itself. Pieces of flaming bark and branches were beginning to rain down. A partridge, blinded by the smoke, whirred over their heads and tumbled into the water.
“Keep going, Carl!” Bob cried hoarsely. “A little more’ll do it.”
Working frantically, they managed to put together a few more square feet of raft and cover it with lumber. It was a rickety affair, but it must serve as it was. There was no time to do any more.