“No; at least not to the train. We’re stuck, that’s all.”
“Stuck?”
“Yes, stalled! We can’t go any farther.” He pointed ahead, to where the line swept around a curve, and at the bend stood a man with a red flag.
“Come on, let’s see what it is,” proposed Blake. He and his chum ran to where the flagman stood, and, as they rounded the curve, they saw ahead of them a break in the line, where a bridge had been swept away. The train could go no farther.
“Look at that river!” cried Joe, pointing to the big stream. It was not the Mississippi, but a side stream, swollen by the heavy rain, and it was adding its waters to those of the big river.
There was scarcely any sound to be heard, save the splatter of the rain, the river not rushing along with a roar, as flooded streams sometimes do. But that there was terrible power in this silent current could not be doubted. And much debris was being carried along in the muddy waters.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Ringold, as he came up to join the boys. They pointed to where the bridge had been swept away.
“Well, we’ll have to get a boat, to take us off to Hannibal, I guess,” said the manager, always practical in an emergency. “Can we get one around here?” he asked of the flagman.
“The railroad has sent for a tug to take the passengers on to the city,” the man answered. “I expect she’ll be here soon.”
“Come on, we’ll get our stuff together,” said Mr. Ringold. “I’m anxious to get to the city and make some inquiries for the lost ones.”