"Now see if we can make it!" cried Mr. Ringold, as he took the wheel. "It's a bare chance!"
It was, and how slender the boys did not realize until later. The powerful current pulled and tugged at them, to force them off the course, and into a branch of the stream that ended in a dismal swamp.
But the Clytie was a stanch craft, and was in good hands. Slowly but surely she fought her way against the cross-current, pulling away from danger.
"I'm giving her all the gas she can take," murmured Mr. Ringold, as he advanced the throttle to its limit, and set the spark timer at its most advantageous position. "She can't do any more!"
Blake and Joe stood ready to do all possible, but it was not much. They had to depend on the motor. And that machine made good. The propeller, beating the muddy water to foam, slowly shoved the craft ahead, and to one side, until, finally, the pull of the cross-current was lessened. Then, gathering speed, the boat made her way into the main channel.
"Safe—for a while at least!" cried Mr. Ringold.
The danger to which they had been exposed
