his turn to prepare the evening meal. The gasoline stove was started, and soon the appetizing odor of ham and eggs floated over the floodwaters, for our friends had purchased a supply at the last village where they had stopped to make inquiries.
"I only hope Birdie Lee, and the rest of 'em, are having as good a meal as this," murmured Blake, as he passed his plate for a second helping. "I'd give a good deal to know where they are now, and be able to help them."
"I think we all would," came from Mr. Ringold, and he spoke rather solemnly. "It's strange we can't get any word of them," he went on. "At the next town we make, if they have any telegraph service, I am going to wire my New York office, and ask if any word has been received there. Levinberg probably knows I'd be anxious about them, after hearing of the flood, and he might think to wire me."
"Pretty bad telegraph service, all along the river now, I guess," commented Mr. Piper.
"But they may be able to get a message through, somehow," said the manager, hopefully. "We'll wait half a day or so, after I send the dispatch, in case an answer should come back."
Supper over, the bunks were arranged for the
