On the chance that there might still be some in need of rescue in the town where the houses had burned, the Clytie went back through the flooded streets, but men in small boats were patrolling the district, and, thanking our friends for their work, said they would look after matters now.
“But there won’t be much left to look after, if this keeps on,” spoke one man, gloomily enough, as he looked over the burned section, and the flooded village. “We’ve been smitten mighty hard.”
“But we’ll come up again, when the waters go down!” cried another, more cheerfully. “It might be worse. No lives have been lost, so far, that’s one blessing!”
“That’s a good way to look at it,” said Mr. Ringold, as he directed the craft out into the main flood again, and turned her bow down stream.
As they were all tired, and wet from the work of rescuing those who had leaped into the water, it was decided to make a stop, tie up, have something to eat, and clean the boat, for there was much mud and water aboard from the clothing of the saved ones.
Accordingly, in a sheltered cove, tied to a tree that stuck up out of the flood, they made a halt. The preparation of the meal, and the cleansing of the boat took longer than they expected, and as Blake wanted to get some pictures of that flooded section, they decided to remain there over night, and proceed in the morning.
The weather had cleared again, at least for the time being, and, aside from their anxiety about the missing ones, our friends were fairly comfortable. They had put on dry clothing, and sat in the cabin of the boat, discussing the strenuous scenes through which they had recently passed.
A loud crash awakened them all about midnight, no watch having been kept. It sounded like some great explosion, close at hand.
“What was that?” cried Blake, sitting up in his bunk.
He had his answer a second later, for there was a blinding flash, and another booming sound.