“Can’t, Joe,” he answered, laconically. “Not room enough. Do what you can with the engine, Jack, and all keep a sharp lookout. I’m off. What’s that?”
A faint ray of light suddenly flashed its way through the darkness, slowly moved up and down, then swung around and disappeared.
“Search-light,” cried Bob, hurriedly. “Some steamer coming along—yes, there it is. See—away off? But I can’t wait.”
He dashed inside, seized the oars, while Joe Preston hauled in the rope and the dory was brought alongside.
Bob speedily clambered in and set a lantern in the bow, then with the aid of an oar, shoved off.
“Look out for yourself,” cried Jack Lyons. “For goodness’ sake, be careful.”
“Don’t bother about me, fellows,” said Bob, cheerily, and he bent to the oars, while his excited friends watched the dory melting into the darkness, the lantern reflecting in erratic, wriggling lines.
Bob pulled with long, steady strokes. Every ounce of strength in his muscular arms was brought into play, and in a few moments the house-boat assumed a strange, weird appearance in the gloom. He could still hear the voices of his chums, and yelled a cheery, “All right, fellows,” then strove with might and main, as another call for assistance was borne to his ears.
The choppy water lapped and gurgled, and the dory’s sharp bow plunging in sent a shower of drops flying aboard. It was all very dark and mysterious on the river and a strange sense of loneliness stole over the young skipper. The waves were higher now, and as they bore down upon the frail craft its occupant was forced to carefully judge his strokes.
Again the ray of the search-light flashed across the water and a glance over his shoulder enabled him to get a clear view of the approaching steamboat.