As the fire burnt itself out the pale light of day shone through the windows. Friday morning had dawned.
"Still raining a little," said Ned, "and the sky is cloudy. We must start up the creek without delay now. My mind will feel a good deal easier when I know that Clay and Nugget are safe. They must be feeling pretty wretched if they stayed on the island all night in the rain."
"I don't think they would venture to leave after the directions you gave them," returned Randy. "Unless the island became flooded. I never thought of that before."
Ned walked quickly to the side window and looked out.
"The water is still on the rise," he said gloomily. "It is backing into the wasteway and crawling up the slope toward the mill. You can hardly see anything of the dam. To tell the truth, Randy, I believe the creek is quite high enough to cover that island."
Randy turned pale.
"What has become of the boys then?" he asked. "Could they have passed down the creek while we were drying ourselves?"
"Hardly," said Ned. "You forget the dam. But pull on your coat and we'll be off. It's not raining enough to hurt us."
Randy hastily obeyed, and after satisfying themselves that the lingering embers of the fire could do no damage, the boys went down the shaking flight of steps to the lower floor. With great care they crossed the rotten planks, and were half way to the door when a burly figure darkened the threshold—a roughly dressed man with a gun on his shoulder and a partially filled grain sack in his hand.
The boys stood still, half frightened, half astonished, but the stranger came quickly forward, lowering his gun as he did so.