He was followed by Mr. Ringold, and none too soon, for, a moment later, with a rending of planks, the motor boat pulled away from the jagged ends of the raft on which she was impaled.
A second’s hesitation, and she sank with a gurgling, bubbling sound beneath the muddy, swirling waters of the Mississippi.
“Good-bye, Clytie!” said Blake, softly, and it was as though he was saying farewell to some dear friend.
“Well, I guess we’ve seen the last of her,” murmured Mr. Ringold.
They stood silent for a minute, huddled together, a wet, miserable group on the big raft that was racing down stream. Then, as he gazed at his companions, and then at the pile of their possessions, C. C. Piper remarked:
“What happened, anyhow? What does it all mean? Is it a dream or reality?”
“It’s real, all right,” spoke Joe, mournfully enough. “We were rammed by this raft—that’s what happened. And it’s lucky for us that these logs stood by long enough for us to get aboard, or we’d be swimming out there in the big muddy,” and he nodded toward the river, from which they were kept by none too stout a craft.
“It’s my fault,” said Mr. Ringold. “I should have seen this raft racing along.”
“Well, let’s see what sort of a boat the raft’s going to make for us,” interrupted Joe. “We’ve got to stay aboard to-night, at all events.”
“Yes, and maybe longer,” added Blake. “Well, there’s a cabin to take shelter in, anyhow. Let’s take a look at that.”