The Moving Picture Boys and the Flood/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII
CHARLIE HOUSE
"Look at that!" cried Joe.
"I should say so!" echoed his chum.
"Must have been a queer freak of the flood that could do that," commented Mr. Piper.
"Me for a picture!" exclaimed Joe, as he got out the camera.
"Is there light enough?" questioned Blake.
"I guess so—for a short run of film," answered his chum, and then, as the house, in its queer position, drifted down stream, and as the motor boat approached it, the occupants seeking a safe place to tie up for the night, Joe got a series of moving pictures.
"There it goes—stranded!" cried Blake, when his friend had finished grinding away at the crank of the camera. And, as he spoke, the house came to a sudden stop.
Probably the roof which was submerged in the water, had struck against a sandbar, or some high place in the land that was under water.
At any rate, the upside-down dwelling turned slowly about, settled a little to one side, and then remained stationary in the water. It had stranded in a small cove, in which the moving picture boys, and their two friends, had also decided to take shelter for the night.
"We'll tie up to that big tree over there," said Mr. Ringold, pointing to a large oak that overhung the water. "I think that will stand, even though the waters rise higher."
"Tie with a long rope," advised Mr. Piper. "The river may rise suddenly in the night, and if we are held fast by a short cable, and can't rise with the 'tide,' we'll sink."
"I'll look out for that," promised the manager. "But I think the river is not rising so fast now. We can tell when we get near shore."
"It looks like more rain," remarked Joe, with a glance at the sky. "You wouldn't think there could be so much water; would you?"
"Hardly," agreed Blake.
The work of making the boat fast was soon finished. Certainly the oak tree to which they tied seemed, with its great trunk, and spread of roots, strong enough to withstand many a flood.
"And now for supper!" cried Joe, it being 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 night. The weather was calmer now than at any time since the storms began that had caused the flood. The sun shone through the clouds a little, as it set. Blake and Joe, on the after deck of the motor boat, looked about them. On all sides stretched a vast extent of waters. They had driven a stake in near shore, and watched it to note the rise of the river. It was very slight now.
"Say!" exclaimed Blake, as he glanced over toward the upside-down house, "let's go over there and look inside. Maybe we can find something of value, that we might save for the owners."
"I'm with you," agreed Joe. Mr. Ringold offered no objection, and, after casting off the line, the motor boat was started up, proceeding slowly to the side of the overturned dwelling. The craft was then made fast to a hook in one corner.
"Let's go in," proposed Blake, when they had gazed through a window for a moment, not being able, however, to distinguish much.
"How do you act in an upside-down house?" asked Joe.
"You have to walk on the ceiling, of course," answered his chum. "The ceiling is the floor and the floor the ceiling. Come on."
They crawled in through a window. As Blake had said, they had to step on the ceiling, and with caution, too, for it was only lath and plaster. Over their heads was the floor, with the sagging carpet still tacked to it.
Of course all the furniture was on the ceiling, too, and it was in great confusion. Bureaus had fallen on their sides, smashing the plaster, and pictures had dropped from their hooks and lay on the ceiling. The house was a flat-roofed one, and all of what had been the third story was now under water. The third story was now the cellar, and the cellar, or what had corresponded to it, was the attic. Though, as the bottom of the cellar had been left on the ground when the house was washed from the foundations, there was no roof to the "attic."
"Quite a mix-up!" murmured Joe, as they went from room to room, stepping over the tops of the door openings.
Beds and furniture were piled in confusion in the different rooms, much of the stuff being broken. There were evidences, too, that water had come in some of the rooms, probably when the house turned over, but it had drained out, and now the rooms on the middle or second story were comparatively dry.
"Let's go upstairs, or, rather, downstairs, to the first story," suggested Blake.
Once on the top, or, rather, bottom floor, the boys found more confusion. The dining room table had fallen with its legs in the air, and piled about it was a buffet and chairs. The dishes lay about, broken and cracked.
In the kitchen the weight of the stove, falling from the floor to the ceiling, had caused it to crash through the lath and plaster, in which it was imbedded, partly covered by the cooking utensils.
"Nothing much of value here," commented Blake, as they walked about on the ceilings.
"Let's go back up; or, rather, downstairs," suggested Joe.
"Find anything?" asked the manager,
"Nothing worth saving for the owners," Blake answered.
"Well, then, we'd better be getting back," suggested Mr. Piper. "It will soon be dark, and there's no telling when this house may go adrift, or turn right-side up again. I don't want to be in it when it does."
They were about to crawl out of the window again, to get into their boat, when a curious cry stopped them.
"Hark!" exclaimed Blake. "What was that?"
"It sounded like someone crying," said Mr. Piper.
"Mamma! Mamma!" came the plaintive call from one of the bedrooms.
"It is someone crying!" decided the manager.
"And in here, too," added Blake, as he made a turn in the direction of the sound.
Again it came—a pitiful cry:
"Mamma! I want you!"
"Where are you? Who are you?" asked Mr. Ringold, as he and the others followed Blake.
And there, sitting up amid a pile of bedclothes in a corner, hitherto unobserved, was a small boy, about eight years old. He had evidently just awakened, and was starting to cry. He rubbed his sleepy eyes.
"Well, my little man, who are you?" asked the manager, kindly.
"I'm Charlie," was the answer, "and I want my mamma."
"Charlie; eh?" went on the manager. "Well, tell us your other name, and maybe we can find your mamma for you. What's your last name?"
"Ain't got none. I'm just Charlie, and I want my mamma!" was the answer.
"Just Charlie," went on Mr. Ringold. "Well, I guess we'll have to take you along with us, and we'll try to find your mamma. Will you come with us, Charlie—er—well, 'just' Charlie?" and he smiled at the little chap.
"Call him Charlie House," suggested Joe, with a smile. "We found him in a house, so call him Charlie House."
"Good idea! We will!" decided the manager. "Will you come with us, Charlie House?"
"Yes, I'll come with you," answered the boy, as he threw off the bedclothes. "But my name is just Charlie."
"Well, Just Charlie, or Charlie House, come along then. I expect you're hungry, and we'll feed you, and do all we can for you," the manager said.
With the confidence of childhood, that knows no fear, the boy walked over the ceiling toward the rescuers. His clothing was in disorder, and his face was grimy from crying. Evidently, after the accident, he had cried himself to sleep. How he came to be alone in the overturned house could be but guessed.
"What's that?" suddenly cried Blake.
The whole house seemed to shake and tremble.
"She's adrift again, and going to turn over!" yelled Joe. "Come on! Let's get out!"
It was evident that the dwelling was going to be righted by the flood, for it tilted more and more.