“What’s to be done?” asked Jerry Jackson.
“Yes, what’s to be done?” echoed his twin brother.
“Guess we’ll have to swim for it,” suggested Dutch Housenlager. “That is, unless Grasshopper Backus can jump over with us on his back, one at a time.”
But, though they could joke over the situation, they all knew that it was serious. The time was drawing close, and they were still some distance from Boxer Hall. Further inquiry of the men on the bridge did not help matters, nor did the fuming and fretting of Tom and his chums.
“Can’t you suggest a plan?” asked Mr. Leighton of the chauffeur.
“Well, there’s another bridge about five miles below here.”
“That’s too far. Ten miles out of our way. Time we went there, and got back it would be too late. Boxer Hall would claim the game. Can nothing be done?” and the coach looked at the swiftly swirling river. At that moment a man driving a mule hitched to a buckboard came along. He took in the situation at a glance.
“Stuck, eh?” he remarked sympathetically.
“That’s what,” replied Bricktop Molloy. “Maybe ye happen t’ be a fairy, Mr. Man, an’ can help us across.”
“Why don’t you try the ford?” asked the man.