How he managed to scramble on it he could never afterwards explain; but, when he had done so, and looked around, it was to discover Bob sitting astride the rolling log, close by, and the half-sunken boat just vanishing from sight in the gathering gloom.
“How is it, Sandy; are you all right?” anxiously asked Bob.
“I’m on the log, if that is what you mean,” gasped the younger boy, noticing, however, that their strange craft began to roll less, now that they had settled down upon its broad back.
“And I hope you held on to your gun?” Bob went on; for even in that terrible moment he could remember such a thing. This was hardly to be wondered at, because it had taken both of the boys many a long month’s work with their first traps, away off in Virginia, to gather together enough money to purchase the flint-lock muskets they owned, and which had always served their purpose well. To lose one meant another expenditure of hard-earned shillings, and even pounds.
“I have it here, safe and sound,” replied Sandy, not without a touch of pride in his voice; for to have managed to get aboard that rolling log in such a hurry, and to keep a grasp upon the long musket, was no trifling task.
“That was a close shave,” said the elder brother, with a long-drawn sigh; since he had been terribly alarmed for the moment, more on account of Sandy than for himself.
“We never had a more exciting time,” admitted his brother, frankly.
“And we have much to be thankful for,” continued Bob.
“For this old floating log, you mean?” observed Sandy, not without a touch of sarcasm in his voice.
“Yes, because even an old log may turn out to be a pretty good friend,” Bob went on, positively. “I’ve heard father declare that a sailor is thankful for any port in a storm; and, only for this log, we might have been swimming our level best right now, brother, to keep our heads above water.”