"I'm not so sure. How are we going to get over?"
"Swim it, unless—no, I guess we won't swim—not, at least, if there's a pair of oars in that flat-boat I see yonder. Funny we didn't stumble over it when we came down."
"Maybe it wasn't here then. Maybe the man came over in it. We better not stand here in the open. We don't know what minute he might be back."
"Well, if it is his boat, at least we don't need to worry about running onto him over there on the island."
"You're going to swim over, aren't you, Jerry? If the man came along and found his boat gone, he'd know we were over there and——"
"And he'd be stranded on this side until we were so kind as to bring back his boat. You can bet he isn't going to swim over, and I bet you I don't either."
The boat proved to be a cumbersome flat-boat of the type used by clam-fishers. In fact the smell that simply swirled up from its oozy bottom left no doubt that the boat had been used for that purpose. A pair of unbelievably heavy oars, cut from a sapling with a hand-axe, trailed in the water from "loose oarlocks." Dave gave a gasp of dismay as he "hefted" the rough implements.
"Let's swim it, Jerry," he said disgustedly. "The boat'll never hold up the oars and us too. They weigh a ton."
"Pile in," answered Jerry, with the first laugh since that tragic moment when he had seen a different boat swept over the dam many weary miles up the river. "We'll each take an oar and try some two-handed rowing. This craft was built for ocean-going service. Hold tight; we're off."
But they weren't. Jerry's mighty push ended in a grunt. "Come on; get out here and shove."