“So that’s the way they rate friendship, is it?” reflected Ralph. “I guess ‘Lo, the poor Indian,’ has been a lot overestimated, or else this is an exceptional specimen.”
“I hope your friend is all right,” he said aloud, “but anyhow, we’ll soon see. Look!”
From up the river came a sudden glare of blue light. It was a Coston signal from the River Swallow.
“There they are now,” cried Ralph. “They are lying to for us. Lucky thing I have along my water-proof box of matches.”
He fumbled for the metal cylinder which had been of so much use to him in many tight places. Then, followed by the Indian, he set off across the little island to the side on which, judging by the light, the River Swallow was lying to. It did not take long to collect dry sticks and leaves and make a bright glare.
Through the night came a hail from the River Swallow’s megaphone.
“Are you all right, Ralph?”
Ralph cupped his hands. “Fine; but mighty wet! You’d better send ashore. I’ve got the Indian.”
“Good! We got the other,” came back another hail.
“Your friend all right,” said Ralph turning to the Indian. “Pretty soon they send small boat ashore for us.”