“Just look at the National!” exclaimed Pep, as they returned from carrying some crying children away from the menace of the flood.
The rival playhouse stood at the lowest part of the depression. A long platform ran to its entrance. This was fully four feet under water and the lower story of the place was two steps lower down. Here the surplus water had gathered, growing deeper every minute. The street in front was impassable, and running two ways a veritable river, which cut off the National as if it was an island.
“I hope no one is in it,” said Frank.
“But there is!” cried Randy. “Look, Frank—that window at the side. Some one is clinging to the window frame.”
The flashes of lightning, indeed showed a forlorn figure at the spot Randy indicated. And then Vincent, after staring hard, cut in with the sharp announcement:
“It’s certainly Jack Beavers!”
“Hey, you!” yelled Pep, making a speaking trumpet of his hands and signaling Peter Carrington’s partner. “Help me fellows,” and Pep sprang upon a platform that had drifted away from its original place in front of some store.
Frank was beside him in a moment. Randy had got Jolly to help him tear loose a scantling from a step protection. He joined the others, using the board to push their unstable float along.
The water was over six feet deep and the scantling was not much help. A great gust of wind whirled them ten feet nearer to the playhouse building. At the same time it blew over the chimney on its top.
The boys saw the loosened bricks shower down past the clinging form in the window.