"Uncle!" he shouted. "Boys! Wake up! We are drifting down stream!"
The others were awake in an instant, and in all sorts of costumes they crowded out on deck. Jack carried a rifle under the impression that they had been attacked.
"What's the matter?"
"Is it the natives again?"
"Are we attacked?"
These and half a dozen other questions assailed Tom's ears before he was enabled to point out the true state of affairs.
"We are drifting rapidly down the stream," he said. "We must be far from where we tied up."
This was unquestionably the truth. The Yukon Rover was not only drifting on the swift current, but was near the middle of the stream where the tide was more rapid than at the sides. In the deep twilight, which is the far northern night, they could see the low-lying banks slipping by like a moving panorama.
The profound stillness rendered the scene still more impressive as the alarmed party stood thunderstruck on the deck of the castaway steamer.
"What can have happened?" demanded Jack.