"That was always a weak spot, I remember. Once, I thought my foot was going to break through," declared Sandy, reminiscently.
"Just as you say. I noticed it myself, and that was one mistake I made. I should have put this patch on before we started on our trip," and Bob stood back to survey his work.
"Well," remarked the younger lad, as his eyes went out over that tumbling flood, on which the trees were swiftly passing in procession, "we will need a good stout boat if we hope to get over there. Do you think we can manage it, Bob? I'd be willing to take some chances rather than stay here a week, perhaps two, and have mother crying her eyes out for us the while."
"I see no reason why we shouldn't make it," came Bob's reply. "The current heads toward our shore. Besides, with three to paddle, we should be able, foot by foot, to get over. And when we once leave the middle of the river it will not be so bad."
"Three! Then you expect that our new friend will be able to help out?" and Sandy glanced toward the sleeping stranger.
"Surely. After he wakes up he will be stronger. And he does not look like one who would shirk. He must have struggled hard to reach that place where we found him. Perhaps he saw our fire through the trees, or heard you shout. That was what made him cry out."
Bob had picked up a hatchet as he spoke, and started to move off.
"Let me cut some more fuel," objected Sandy, as he tried to take the tool from the other's hands.