"I'm diving shallow, Dave; two feet is all I ask below. We can't take any chances of losing her. Carry my clothes along the bank, will you? I'll try to make the east side—it looks a little closer."
In the few seconds they had talked, the boat had drifted under the bridge and now cut through the silver-edged shadow of the last timbers.
There was a quiver of the flimsy railing, a slender body cut through the moonlight, parted the water with a clean sush! and bobbed up almost immediately, within three feet of the boat. Jerry Ring did not have the reputation of being the best diver in Watertown for nothing.
Now ensued a great kicking and churning as Jerry's legs transformed themselves into propellers for the salvaged "Big Four." Progress was slow; the waterlogged craft lay in the river like so much cordwood. More than once Jerry had to stop for a few minutes' rest. But little by little he neared shore, encouraged by Dave, who impatiently awaited the landing, wading out finally waist-deep to help.
Neither one said a word as the boat was at last beached. No more than the barest glance was needed to tell that there was nothing in the boat but water. Theirs had been a fruitless chase.
"Well," said Dave, slowly, after a long silence, "I guess that ends our last hope."
"I'm afraid you're right," agreed Jerry dejectedly. "But there's one thing that puzzles me—do you notice how much water there is in the boat? It's a good ten inches from the top—how full would it have been when she popped up from under the falls at the dam?"
"She'd have been right up to the top, I suppose. Why?"
"Well, what I want to know is: How did it get out? And, what's more, I'd like to know how it would have taken the boat all these hours to float those few miles. Plum Run's got a six mile an hour current up above, and it's at least four here. There's something mighty funny about it all to me."
"But mightn't it just have been snagged or shoaled up above, and finally worked loose?"