“Boys,” said he, drawing forth a tin pail from under the seat, “we must fight for our lives, and make up our minds to pass the night here. Well have to use this concern, I think.”
“Here’s something, too, that may be of use,” said Arthur, drawing out a narrow plank from the bottom of the boat. “Phil, there’s another one; just draw it out.”
Phil reached down for it, but Tom Crawford dragged it out first.
“I’m stronger than you, Phil,” said he. “If there’s to be any paddling, I’ll do it.”
Meanwhile Arthur drew his knife, and began cutting at the plank so as to fashion it into an oar. Tom did the same.
Soon they were interrupted by a shout from Bart.
“Hurrah, boys! Land! land!” he cried. “Look! look!” and he pointed to the left.
True enough, there was the dim outline of black cliffs rising high not far away. Past these they were drifting. In an instant Arthur and Tom put out their planks, and began to use them as paddles, in the Indian fashion, heading the boat toward the shore, and putting forth all their strength. Bart, too, tried to use his dipper for a paddle.
The boat drifted on; but the current swept them in nearer and nearer. Some progress was also made by the paddles, rude though they were.
Borne on by the tide, the boat every moment drew nearer to the shore; yet every moment it was swiftly drifting by, and it now became a question whether it would be at all possible for them to reach, the land. Already they could see the end of the island, a precipitous cliff, not far away, toward which they were drifting. A few minutes more, and they would be there.