The river was constantly making new channels for itself, and leaving old ones, but the Clytie was a boat of small draught, and could easily navigate in shallow places.
“Suppose we eat something?” proposed Blake, for it was nearly noon. Considerable time had passed at the rescue work.
There was a small gasoline stove in the cabin of the boat, and they had with them plenty of supplies, so it was not long before a meal was in preparation. And, in spite of their anxiety about the missing ones, our friends managed to eat heartily. Even Mr. Piper seemed to lose most of his gloom, as he passed his cup for more coffee.
“We ought to be near that island now,” observed Mr. Ringold, as he looked across at the shore nearest to which they then were. “The hotel clerk said it was opposite a certain town, with two white church steeples. There are the two white church steeples he mentioned.”
“There isn’t much of the town left,” said Blake. “It’s pretty well under water.” And that was a fact. The lower part was submerged, and as they came up to it, men could be seen going about in boats, removing belongings from houses, the lower floors of which were already under water.
No lives appeared to be in danger, for the people had doubtless fled to higher ground on seeing the rising waters. On the hills back of the town could be noted a number of tents, where, very likely, the refugees had taken up their abode.
“But I don’t see anything of an island,” said the manager, as he peered over the turbulent stretch of muddy waters.
“If it was opposite this town, and the lower part of the town is under water, the island is probably covered up by now,” observed Blake, grimly.
“I’m afraid so,” agreed the manager. “We’ll go over there, and make some inquiries.”
By going toward shore they were not in such a strong current, and soon the motor boat was cruising along through what had been business streets.