"Try it is, then," said Gist, rather admiring Washington's hopefulness and pluck than otherwise. "I am at your service, and if anybody can cross the river, I think a man of your grit can."
So they set to work to construct a raft, with no implement but a solitary hatchet, consuming a whole day in the work. When the awkward affair was fairly launched, they went on board of it, and pushed off for the opposite shore. About mid-way of the river, the floating ice came down with such violence as to threaten the destruction of the raft.
"We can never reach the shore on this craft," said Gist, in a tone indicating entire resignation to a watery grave.
"Can't we stop the raft and let the ice go by?" answered Washington, at the same time putting down the setting pole to accomplish this purpose. But the rapidity of the torrent dashed the raft with such violence against the pole that it threw Washington into ten feet of water.
"Hold on!" shouted Gist under the greatest alarm; "grasp this oar." And he reached out his oar to Washington, who had already caught hold of one of the raft-logs. A severe but short struggle, and he was on the raft again.
"A cold bath," remarked Washington, as he stood upon the raft again, shaking the water from his drenched clothes.
"It is a miracle that you were not drowned," replied Gist; "and you would have been if you were as nervous as some people."
"I am cool enough now," said Washington, his wet clothes already beginning to stiffen on his back in the wintry blast. "I shall not despair so long as I remember that one faithful saint is praying for me," referring to the promise of his mother.
They made a desperate effort to keep their craft right side up in the floating ice, but failed in the attempt.