all hope, our friends set to work to make a rude tent. By the use of blankets and poles they made one, well up from the water.
Fortunately the island was of high, sloping formation, and, knowing that the river might rise suddenly, they went far enough away from the edge, to preclude any possibility of being overwhelmed in the night.
"This must be a big island," observed Joe, as he and Blake worked together. "When the water is at the regular level it must be some miles across."
"I guess it is," agreed his chum.
Penetrating into the woods, in search of more tent poles, Blake uttered a cry of surprise.
"What's the matter?" shouted Joe. "Have you found anything?"
"I should say I had!" answered Blake, as he came rushing out with a square tin box in his arms. "Look here! Pilot biscuit—a whole tin of it, and only a little of it is wet! This will keep us alive for a while, anyhow."
"Where in the world did you find it?" asked Joe.
"Back there, by that big tree. It must have been washed down here by the flood."
"I don't care How it got here," cried Joe, "give me some."
