Afloat on the Flood

by Lawrence J. Leslie

They could see it moving, at first slowly, then with a sudden rush. It careened far on one side, and then surged to the other dreadfully. Had they still been clinging to the ridge the chances were that they would have been thrown into the water; and besides, there was always great danger that the house would fall to pieces before long.

"Well, we've got a whole lot to be thankful for, anyway!" Steve presently remarked, as he patted Bessie's, hand with one of his, using the oar with the other meanwhile.

"I should say we had!" declared Bandy-legs; "I'd rather be here in this bully old boat ten times over, to squattin' up on that old roof, seesawin' along every-which-way. Here, pull harder, Steve; you're lettin' her yaw around terrible. We want to head for the shore and not down-river way."

As the two rowers continued to work regularly they kept gradually nearing the western shore of the flood. Of course this was far removed from what the bank must be under ordinary conditions, in places as much as a quarter of a mile further inland. The water was sweeping through the lower branches of trees that all their lives had been far removed from the influence of the river; and there would be many changes in the aspect of things when the flood eventually subsided.

The girls sat there silent, and absorbed in watching the dizzy evolutions of the drifting farmhouse that was rapidly passing away from them down-stream. Of course it meant more to the lame child than any one else, and Max could feel sorry for her. He had only to put himself in her place, to realize the sadness that would be sure to overwhelm him should he watch his loved home carried off, never to be seen again.

However he had many other things to think of, and could not spend any time in crying over spilt milk. Nothing they could do would mend matters so far as saving the French home was concerned; and they had enough to do in looking out for their own safety.

"If you get tired, let some of the rest of us spell you, boys," Max was saying to the pair of rowers, who had all they could do to stem the furious current that every now and then caught them in a pocket, from which they could only drag the boat by desperate labor; "I'm a good hand with the oar, and I know Shack is a regular crackerjack at the business. Just say the word when you get played out, and we'll change places with you."

Shack shot him a grateful look. It seemed as though he appreciated what Max had said, and which seemed to place him on the same level as the rest of the fellows. Somehow Shack was feeling differently from any time in the past; why, all this business of getting soaked through, and battling with the flood was in the nature of a picnic to him, accustomed to rubbing up against hard knocks as he was. And it felt pretty nice to be looked on as a "comrade" by these fellows whom he had always fought tooth and nail in the past; much nicer than loafing with that old crowd once led by Ted Shatter but now under the guidance of Ossie Kemp.

They had struck another bad place in the flood, where cross currents made it difficult work rowing. Both boys strained themselves to the utmost to resist the grip of the stream. Once across this section, and possibly they would have it easier all the way to the shore.

Steve was working with his accustomed fits and starts. He would allow things to go against him, for a short interval, and then throwing on all his reserve power into the breach make his oar fairly bend with the furious strain he put upon it.