“Where can you get a fish to-night?” demanded Jule. “Think one is going to climb up on the deck? Ham is good enough for me right now!”
But Alex. did not abandon the idea of having a fish supper. After the Rambler had been taken a short distance up the river and anchored in a little bay which promised protection from the rushing current, loaded at times with driftwood and the wreck of houses and barns, the lad again broached the subject.
“I can get the rowboat out,” he insisted, “and let her down stream with a line. Then I can fish under that bank to the east. Don’t you ever think all the river fish have moved into top flats because of the flood! I saw one jump up just a moment ago! You boys keep a good fire and I’ll guarantee to bring the fish!”
“Go it!” Clay laughed. “I wouldn’t go out in a rowboat for a dozen fish suppers, but you seem to have the luck of the Irish on such occasions, so get to going!”
“You’ll eat the fish, all right!” Alex. taunted, “so help me get the boat down.”
The skiff was lowered from the roof of the little cabin and placed in the water, with a great splash. It tugged and strained at the cord which held it, and now and then received severe bumps from floating debris, but Alex. insisted on drawing it up and jumping in. Then he set about getting his fish for supper!
For a long time the boy fished without receiving any intimation that there was a fish left in the river! The boat caught plenty of driftwood, however. At times great masses of trees and timbers would go sailing down, advancing out of the darkness into the circle of light about the Rambler as if brought to life by the presence of mankind. Then the darkness would receive them again and the water would run clear for a time.
The little bay where the Rambler was moored was in a measure out of the sweep of the strong current, still the water eddied and swirled around the little rowboat in a threatening manner. Sometimes the boy had all he could do to keep the craft from turning turtle and dumping him into the river. The other boys, watching from the deck of the motor boat, often called to him to draw up on the line in order to avoid a mass of wreckage drifting that way.
The strong, high prow-light of the motor boat cast a sharp illumination over the river for some distance up stream, revealing the approach of dangerous wreckage, and the lone fisherman was often glad to heed the warnings of his chums. At last, however, just as he was playing a fish which seemed to him as large as a whale, and twice as ferocious, he heard a call which he disregarded for a second.
“There’s a roof coming down!” Clay shouted to the boy. “It is likely to pay you a visit! Better come aboard!”