Still no response.
“Maybe they don’t run at night,” suggested Bert.
“He said the water might be too high,” commented Franklin. “It looks simple enough.”
Once more I pulled the bell.
Then after another drift of moments there was a faint sound as of scraping chains or oars, and after a few moments more, a low something began to outline itself in the mist. It was a flat boat and it was coming, rigged to an overhead wire and propelled by the water. It was coming quite fast, I thought. Soon it was off shore and one of the two men aboard—an old man and a young one—was doing something with the rear chain, pulling the boat farther upstream, nearer the wire.
“Git that end pole out of the way,” called the older of the two men, the one nearer us, and then the long, flat dish scraped the shore and they were pushing it far inland with poles to make it fast.
“What’s the matter? Couldn’t you hear the bell?” I inquired jocundly.
“Yes, I heard the bell, all right,” replied the older man truculently. “This here boat ain’t supposed to run nights anyhow in this here flood. Y'can’t tell what’ll happen, logs and drifts comin' down. We’ve lost three automobiles in her already as it is.”
I speculated nervously as to that while he grumbled and fussed.
“Hook ’er up tight,” he called to his assistant. “She might slip out yet.”