It was about midnight when they were all awakened by a severe shock.
“What’s that?” cried Mr. Ringold, leaping from his bunk.
“We hit something!” cried Joe.
“I should say we did!” yelled Blake. “We’re ashore, that’s what we are. We’re not moving!”
The raft was not moving, save for a slight undulating motion, due to one end being afloat, and the other on land; at least so they supposed.
Taking one of the lanterns, Blake went outside. There was no rain, and a pale moon, behind some watery clouds, gave a little light.
“What is it?” Joe wanted to know.
“We’ve run into an island—or an island has run into us,” Blake answered.
“An island!” echoed Mr. Ringold. “I was hoping it was the mainland.”
“No such good luck,” went on Blake.