“All—all right—Joe—good—work!” Blake managed to gasp.
A moment later he was safe on deck, and Joe had to run back in a hurry to the steering wheel, for the Clytie was headed directly for the small boat. The men in it were crying out in alarm, and endeavoring to get out of the way. But the unguided motor craft seemed bent on running them down.
“All right! Don’t worry!” shouted Joe, as he twirled over the steering wheel, and changed the course of the boat. “I guess we’d better go back and tie up,” he added. “Did you get enough pictures, Blake?”
“Well, we’ll call it a day’s work,” panted the young operator, as he managed to get a full breath after his sudden bath. “I was almost finished when that bump came and knocked me overboard. What was it?”
“A big log. I didn’t see it in time.”
“Neither did I, or I’d have taken a brace,” said Blake, grimly. “Well,” he went on, as he picked up the camera, and found that it was not damaged, “I guess I’ll change my clothes. These don’t look just fit for going to a party,” and he laughed. The camera had closed automatically when he ceased grinding at the crank, so no pictures were spoiled.
“Can we do anything?” asked one of the men in the boat. They were working on the levee, and had dropped everything, and pushed off in their craft, when Joe’s cry of alarm reached them.
“Thank you—no. It’s all over,” said Blake, as Joe guided the motor boat back to her moorings.
Nothing worse than a wetting was the result of Blake’s tumble overboard, and soon, in dry clothing, he was ready for whatever came next. As they had enough pictures of the work on the levee, and at the cotton wharf, the boys decided to await the return of Mr. Ringold and the actor, who had now been gone some time.
“Suppose we go up to town ourselves,” suggested Blake, after a bit. “It will give us a chance to stretch our legs, and we can help carry back the rest of the supplies,” for the latter had not all been put on board yet.