To assist him to a position across the boat’s narrow hull, then to push and pull the small craft ashore, was the work of an hour.
By the time they reached the beach, the boy had so far regained his strength that he was able, with their assistance, to walk to their camp.
A great fire was soon busy dispelling the cold, while clouds of steam rose from their drenched clothing.
Florence bandaged the boy’s head; then, with all the skill of a trained nurse, she brought him fully back to life by chafing his hands and feet.
“So—so that’s who it was?” he found words to gasp at last.
“I thought it was—well, mebby I didn’t think at all. I just lost control and she went over. Good thing you were here.”
“It was.” There was conviction in Tillie’s tone. “I always knew that thing would kill you. And it’s pretty near done it.”
“Mighty close,” he agreed.
“But why are you here?” he asked in some amazement, as he took in their crude accommodations.
“Because we can’t get away. We’re marooned,” Florence explained.