CHAPTER IX. THE CAMP ON THE ISLAND.
"Give me an oar!" exclaimed Oscar. "We must get back to the village without the loss of a moment."
"Then hoist the sail," said Sam, "and we'll go up flying."
"It would be of no use. The wind is dying away, and that fog will be down on us in a quarter of an hour thicker than ever."
Oscar, who pulled the stroke-oar, kept his friend Sam exceedingly busy during the next forty-five minutes, and tested that young gentleman's endurance and muscle in a way they had never been tested before.
They were both tired and quite out of breath when they reached the wharf, where they found Mr. Peck and Mr. Hall, the miller, waiting for them.
The boys were glad to see Mr. Hall there. His grist-mill was located but a few rods away, and they knew that there was a good fire in the office, in front of which their half-frozen passenger would soon be thoroughly dried and thawed out.
The two men had seen the skiff coming up the river, and knowing by the way the oars were handled that there was something wrong, they had waited to see what it was. When they discovered the rescued man sitting on the bottom of the boat, they knew what had happened, and there was no need of inquiries.
"Give us your hand, sir," said Mr. Hall, as the boys lifted the old gentleman to his feet, "and I'll take you right over to my office. I've got a red hot stove there. Just catch hold of his other arm, Sam, and help him along."
"Where did you find him?" asked Mr. Peck, when he was left alone with Oscar. "And where's my boat?"