“Yes, and we don’t have to worry about running a motor, or sinking,” added Joe. “We can’t sink. I really like this better than the Clytie, after all.”
“You might—if you say it quick!” spoke Blake, half-sarcastically. “Still we’re a good deal better off here than out there,” and he nodded toward the river.
“But the question is: What’s going to become of us?” asked C. C. “We can’t stay here for ever.”
“Nobody wants to,” said Blake. “But we’ve got to—for a while; until we’re taken off, anyhow. We certainly can’t swim to shore. We’re about in the middle of the river now, and this is several miles wide. We’ve got to make the best of it.”
“We can’t do anything but let her drift,” said Mr. Ringold. “The sweep, or steering oar, is gone, though we might manage to rig up another. We’ll try in the morning.”
The meal, rude as it was, revived them all, and cheered their drooping spirits. They discussed the matter, and decided there was little use in keeping a watch during the night. They had just to float on.
“Well, it’s good and dry in here, anyhow,” observed Blake, as he crawled into one of the bunks.
“Yes, that’s another comfort, and we’ve got more room than we had aboard the Clytie,” said Joe.
“Don’t go to making fun of the old craft,” cautioned his chum. “She served us well. I’m sorry she’s gone.”
They went to sleep with the rain pattering on the roof of the cabin, thankful for the raft, in spite of the havoc it had made in their plans.