“All right, we’ll be wid yees in a jiffy, depind on it,” came the answer from a point close at hand. “Give us another few digs at the paddle, chief, an’, by the same token, we’ll soon be alongside, so we will.”
A minute later the anxious boys began to detect some moving object, as they strained their eyes to see. Then this turned out to be a long canoe, in which two persons were sitting, the one in the stern using a paddle with that grace and dexterity which only an Indian could exhibit, just as Bob had wisely said.
Sandy craned his head forward to see better through the darkness. Doubtless there must have been something familiar about the movements of this paddler, for he certainly did not have enough light to recognize his features, or even the feather that adorned his scalplock.
“Surely that must be Blue Jacket!” he ejaculated, with a thrill of delight, as well as surprise noticeable in his quivering voice.
“Uh! that so, Sandy,” came in a voice he knew almost as well as he did that of his brother.
“What luck!” cried Sandy. “To think that such good friends should happen to be on the river this night of all times, when we are in such sore need.”
Perhaps, had Bob Armstrong been asked his opinion, he might have declared that it was something much higher than mere luck that brought about such a happy conclusion to their adventure. Bob was a much more serious fellow than his younger brother, and imbibed some of the sentiments that influenced his gentle mother. To him there was something especially Providential in this coming of help when the two boys were in so great need, just as there had been in the falling of the dead tree just as the panthers were about to attack them.
Quickly the canoe worked up alongside the log, to which both the Irish trapper and his native companion fastened a firm grip.
“Come aboord, and be sinsible,” said Pat O’Mara, who was one of the oldest friends the Armstrong family had; and whom they had known away back in Old Virginia, before the thought of daring the perils of the unknown wilderness had ever entered David Armstrong’s mind. “Sure, ’tis a mighty poor sort av a craft ye do be havin’, if I might make so bowld.”