“One thing certain, it couldn’t hurt me any more than just staying here.”
“Well, then I will go down and get Jane,” announced Frances.
“What good will a Jane do? I don’t want to be rude, but this thing hurts like the devil.”
“Say whatever you want to; you might be allowed that. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” Frances shot down the hill with lightning speed. She pounced on Jane and woke her with a little shake.
Jane rubbed sleepy eyes and raised a critical eyebrow.
“Broken-legged man—up on top—by himself—how in the world can we get him down?” panted Frances.
“Have to improvise a stretcher,” said Jane, wide awake at once. “Thank heavens for the blessed old Camp Fire organization. We can take the oars and slip our skirts on them and that will make a dandy stretcher.”
“Jane, you are a perfect peach! I never would have thought of that,” Frances told her friend as they ran down to where they had left the dinghy.
To their dismay they found that the tide had gone out and the constant tugging had slipped the rope out from under the rock and the dinghy was slipping along on the tide about a hundred yards from shore. Quickly the girls got out of their skirts and, in their jersey silk bloomers and flannel blouses, waded out into the water toward the rapidly receding boat.