Part 8 (1/2)

”How far have we come, Max?” Steve continued, anxious to know, and pretending to pay no attention to Bandy-legs' humorous remarks.

”I'm trying to figure it out myself, Steve,” admitted the other, who had also been studying the sh.o.r.e line, though everything was so changed during the high water that it was difficult to recognize land marks that had previously been quite familiar to him; ”and the best I can make out is that we must be somewhere near Dixon's Point, where the river makes that first sharp curve.”

”And, Max, that's about fifteen miles below Carson, isn't it?” Steve added, as he twisted his head the better to look down-stream again.

”Something like fifteen or sixteen, Steve.”

”And if Asa French's place is twenty, we ought to strike in there right soon, hadn't we, Max?”

”Before ten minutes more, like as not,” Max told him.

Steve drew in a long breath. He was undoubtedly wondering what the immediate future had in store for them, and whether some strange fortune might not bring him in close touch with Bessie. He doubtless had been picturing this girl friend of his in all sorts of thrilling situations, owing to the rapidly rising river, and always with some one that looked suspiciously like Steve Dowdy rus.h.i.+ng valiantly to the relief of the helpless ones.

Steve had once tried to play the hero part, and stopped what he believed was a runaway horse, with Bessie in the vehicle, only to have her scornfully tell him to mind his own business after that, since he had spoiled her plans for proving that their old family nag still had considerable speed left in him.

Steve had never forgotten the scorn and sarcasm that marked the girl's face and voice when she said that to him. It had come back to his mind many times since that occasion; and he had kept aloof from all social events ever since, because he did not mean to be snubbed again. And even now, when he was picturing Bessie in real trouble, he kept telling himself that he meant to make sure she was surely in danger of drowning, or something like that, before he ventured to try and succor her. ”Because,” Steve told himself, ”once bit, twice shy; and not if I know it will I ever give any girl the chance again to say I'm trying to show off.”

All the same his eyes seldom roved in any other quarter now but down-stream, which was mute evidence that Steve was thinking about other peoples' troubles besides his own.

”We couldn't do anything to help move this old raft closer to sh.o.r.e, could we, Max?” Bandy-legs was suggesting.

”Hardly, though I'd like to first-rate,” he was told; ”but it's too c.u.mbersome for us to move it, even if we pulled off some boards to use as paddles. So it looks as if we'd have to trust to luck to take us in the right quarter for making our escape.”

”Well, we can be ready, and if the chance comes, make the plunge,”

Bandy-legs continued, ”We're all so wringing wet as it is that if we had to jump in and swim a piece it wouldn't hurt any. Just remember that I'm ready if the rest of you are. I'm not caring any too much for this sort of a boat. It keeps on turning around too many times, like a tub in a tub race, and you never know what minute you're going to be dumped out, if it takes a notion to kick up its heels and dive.”

”Don't look a g-g-gift horse in the m-m-mouth, Bandy-legs!” advised Toby.

Steve was manifesting more and more restlessness.

”Max, you've been down this far before, I reckon, even if most all our camping trips were to the north and west of Carson?” he asked, turning to the leader.

”Yes, several times, to tell you the truth,” admitted Max; ”but with the flood on, things look so different ash.o.r.e that it's pretty hard to tell where you are. Why do you ask me that, Steve?”

”Do you remember whether there's a bend about a mile or so above the French farm house?” continued Steve.

After reflecting for several seconds Max gave his answer.

”Yes, you're right, there is; and I should say it must lie about a mile or so this side of the place.”

”I was trying to figure it all out,” Steve told him, ”and it's this way it looks like to me. The current will sweep us across the river when we swing around that same bend, won't it?”

”Pretty far, for a fact, Steve, because it's apt to run the same way even if the river is far out of its regular channel now.”

”Well, don't you see that's going to bring us pretty close to where the French house used to lie?” Steve remarked, inquiringly.

”Yes, it might, just as you say,” Max replied; ”but why do you speak of it in that way--used to lie?”

”Because,” said Steve, moodily, ”I'm scared to think what might have happened to that same house by now, and wondering if it's been swept clean away; though it was a strongly built place, and ought to stand a heap of pounding before it went down.”