But, as he looked toward the place where it had been tied, he saw only the twisted end of the grapevine cable.
“The raft is gone!” he cried. “It’s been carried away in the flood!”
“What’s that?” called Joe, hardly believing.
“The raft is gone! And our last chance is gone with it!”
Hurriedly they all came out of the tents. It was but too true. The rising waters had pulled and tugged at the raft, until they had carried it down stream.
There was no time to make another. Already the space on which the refugees had taken shelter was growing smaller. Inch by inch the waters rose. The pegs of one of the tents, in which supplies were kept, were now being lapped by the muddy waves.
“Oh, for a boat!” cried Blake.
“We’ve got to do something!” yelled Joe. “We can’t stay here much longer.”
That was evident to all. Yet what could be done?
“Cut down some trees!” cried Mr. Ringold. “We can use them for life preservers, and perhaps float to safety. Cut down trees!”