Stephen said, “All right,” but (careless pilot that he was) began pulling on his socks and shoes, which he had dispensed with during the morning.
Thus occupied, and the other two sitting with their backs to the prow, the unnatural pace at which the boat flew along did not for a moment or two become apparent. Suddenly, however, Wraysford started up.
“Get out your oar, Noll—quick!”
“What’s the row?” said Oliver, proceeding leisurely to obey the order.
“The weir! Quick, man, quick, or we shall be on to it!”
They had indeed got into the race leading to the weir, and every moment the stream, swelled by recent rains, rushed faster.
“Pull your right—hard!” cried Wraysford, backing water while Oliver flew to his oar.
There was just time, by a tremendous effort, to save themselves; but Oliver’s oar was caught under one of the seats, and before he could extricate it the precious opportunity was lost.
No one said a word. Stephen, with pale face, pulled his rudder string; and Wraysford, with his one oar, tried desperately to arrest the headlong progress of the boat.
There was a shout from the bank, and a nearer and louder one from the lock. They became conscious of a great half-open gate on their right, and a rush of footsteps beside them. Then, in far shorter time than it takes to write it, the boat, side on to the weir, lurched and dashed for a moment in the troubled water, and the next instant turned over, and the three boys were struggling in the water.