They joined him “on deck,” if one may use such a term concerning a raft. Looking forward they saw that the front, and jagged, end of the raft—the same that had rammed and sunk the Clytie—had struck on a small island, and was wedged fast in the bank.
They did not sleep much more that night. In the morning, an examination showed that it would be out of the question to remain on the island, and leave the raft. The spot of land, in the midst of the flood, was too small. Probably when the river was at its ordinary height the island was considerably larger. It proved of one advantage to our friends, however, for there was a spring in the middle of it, where the ground was higher, and this gave them a supply of fresh water.
“I wonder if we couldn’t work the raft off?” mused Blake, when they had eaten a very light lunch, for their food was now very low.
But the raft was too heavy, and too firmly imbedded in the soft mud of the island, to enable our friends, try as they might, to float it. They toiled and tugged all the afternoon, for they felt the almost vital necessity of getting away, and reaching a place where they could get more food.
“I guess we’re stuck—and stuck fast!” said Blake, wearily. Then it began to rain again, and they retired to the cabin and went to bed, though no one slept much.
It was about ten o’clock when Joe, getting up for a drink, felt the raft suddenly move.
“Something’s happening!” he cried.
At once they were all aroused. The affair of logs trembled and shivered. Then, with a rending, splintering sound she floated free of the island.
“We’re afloat again!” cried Joe. “The river must have risen and pulled us free.”