“Now,” said Frank, after the roof was on the proposed habitation of the night, “we’ll build a fire at one end and pile bark at the other. We shall have a house as cozy as a bug-in-a-rug nest.”
“If Case would only shoot!” Jule hinted, disliking the idea of a night there, “I could find my way to the river. Perhaps he will, after a time, for he will be lonesome and anxious as soon as it gets dark.”
But no signals came from the river, which seemed a long ways off, and the boys, hovering under the bark roof and listening to the patter of the drops on the growths of the forest, began to wonder if something hadn’t happened to the lad in the boat.
Presently a wind came up, blowing great guns, and the boys were obliged to cling tight to the swaying ridge-pole of their tent in order to prevent the whole frail habitation being blown away. It looked as if a dreary night lay ahead of them.
After an hour or more had been passed in this way a faint drumming, whirring sound was heard, followed by a sharp whistle and a splash of paddles.
“That’s Frank’s miracle!—a steamboat on the river!” cried Alex, jumping out into the rain. “Now I reckon we can tell which way to go to the Rambler!”
Clay and Jule arose and peered out in the direction from which the sounds appeared to come. Frank burst into a laugh.
“Look the other way!” he cried. “That is the echo! The sound is stopped by the foliage and hurled back.”
“Not!” disputed Jule. “The boat is off that way. I can see a light over there.”
“If you do,” Frank returned, “you see a campfire. The river lies off in the opposite direction.”