The Moving Picture Boys and the Flood/Chapter 19
CHAPTER XIX
A COLLISION
"Man overboard!" yelled Joe, more from a sudden instinct than because there was anyone beside himself on the boat to be informed of the fact. Then, with a leap, Joe was outside the pilot house, and standing in the bow of the still-moving craft.
Joe had caught up, in his rush, a cork life ring, attached to a rope, one being kept on the forward deck in readiness for any emergency in the flood. The young operator shoved the fallen camera to one side, and peered eagerly down for a sight of his chum.
"Here you go, Blake!" Joe cried, a hasty glance toward shore showing him two men coming in a rowboat, in response to his cries. '"Here you go! Grab this!"
For he had a glimpse of Blake's head emerging from the water.
Blake was a good swimmer, but he was handicapped by his clothes and shoes, and the fact that the current was rather swift.
The young operator shook his head, to rid his eyes of the blinding water, and then reached out for the ring which Joe tossed to him. He caught, it in one hand, and then was quickly pulled toward the boat.
"All—all right—Joe—good—work!" Blake managed to gasp.
A moment later he was safe on deck, and Joe had to run back in a hurry to the steering wheel, for the Clytie was headed directly for the small boat. The men in it were crying out in alarm, and endeavoring to get out of the way. But the unguided motor craft seemed bent on running them down.
"All right! Don't worry!" shouted Joe, as he twirled over the steering wheel, and changed the course of the boat. "I guess we'd better go back and tie up," he added. "Did you get enough pictures, Blake?"
"Well, we'll call it a day's work," panted the young operator, as he managed to get a full breath after his sudden bath. "I was almost finished when that bump came and knocked me overboard. What was it?"
"A big log. I didn't see it in time."
"Neither did I, or I'd have taken a brace," said Blake, grimly. "Well," he went on, as he picked up the camera, and found that it was not damaged, "I guess I'll change my clothes. These don't look just fit for going to a party," and he laughed. The camera had closed automatically when he ceased grinding at the crank, so no pictures were spoiled.
"Can we do anything?" asked one of the men in the boat. They were working on the levee, and had dropped everything, and pushed off in their craft, when Joe's cry of alarm reached them.
"Thank you—no. It's all over," said Blake, as Joe guided the motor boat back to her moorings.
Nothing worse than a wetting was the result of Blake's tumble overboard, and soon, in dry clothing, he was ready for whatever came next. As they had enough pictures of the work on the levee, and at the cotton wharf, the boys decided to await the return of Mr. Ringold and the actor, who had now been gone some time.
"Suppose we go up to town ourselves," suggested Blake, after a bit. "It will give us a chance to stretch our legs, and we can help carry back the rest of the supplies," for the latter had not all been put on board yet.
"I'm with you," agreed Joe; and, seeing that their craft was securely moored, they went ashore.
The town was a fairly large one, and contained several stores. But business was practically at a standstill now, for everyone who could was working at the levee. There were anxious looks on the faces of all—men, women and children. But women and children were about the only ones in the streets, the men all being at the river front.
"Look!" exclaimed Joe, pointing to a moving picture theater. It was closed, probably from lack of patronage during the flood season, but in front were some advertising lithographs.
"Some of our films!" cried Blake, as he saw some gaudily-colored representations of those pictures he and Joe had taken in earthquake land.
"So they are!" echoed Joe. "Who'd ever thought of seeing them here?"
"I wonder how they took with the audiences?" went on Blake, for he always interested in the financial end of their business, and he and his chum really tried hard to get the very best sort of moving pictures.
"I'd sort of like to know that, myself," murmured Joe.
A small boy was standing in front of the lithographs of the colored pictures, looking at them interestedly.
"Would you like to go in? What time does the show start?" asked Blake, handing the boy a dime, which he took eagerly, and wonderingly.
"Would I like to go in, mister? Well, I guess I would. But they ain't givin' no shows while the river's risin'. Nobody comes and the feller what runs the place says it don't pay him to open. But I saw them pictures," and he nodded at the ones showing a volcano in eruption, and the ground quaking—views that Blake and Joe had taken at a great personal risk.
"How'd you like 'em?" asked Joe, winking at Blake over the lad's head.
"Say, they was the bulliest pictures ever I see, and I go to all the shows when I can!" he cried with enthusiasm. "They was certainly some pictures, believe me! I would like to have been there myself, only not too close," he added, with caution. "The fellers who took them movies sure must have had nerve. I'd like to meet 'em."
"We took those pictures," said Blake, suddenly.
The lad looked at him for a moment. Then a curious look came over his face.
"Say!" he remarked in withering tones, "I'm much obliged to you for the dime—I sure am, 'cause I don't git many. But there ain't no call for you to try to string me that way—jest 'cause you slipped me a dime."
"But we did take those pictures," insisted Joe.
The boy edged away, as though he were afraid they might take strenuous measures to compel him to believe them. Then, as a parting shot, he called out:
"Much obliged for the dime, but I ain't as green as I look, mister. You take them pictures? Bah! Think I'll believe that?" And he set off on the run.
"I guess we might have better kept still," spoke Blake, with a grin at his chum.
"I guess so, too. I s'pose it was asking rather too much to get him to believe a couple of strange fellows took those views. And do you know, Blake," went on Joe, "sometimes when I get to thinking about what we've gone through since we used to work on the farm, I can hardly believe it myself."
"That's right. The stunts we did in New York were strenuous enough for a starter, but in the jungle, and in earthquake land—good night!—as the poet says!" exclaimed Blake.
"And this is going to be worse, if I'm any judge," went, on Joe, as he nodded in the direction of the flooded river.
"Guess you're right," agreed his chum.
They kept on through the town, making a few purchases in stores where women were the only clerks, the men being down at the levee.
"There they are!" exclaimed Joe, as he and Blake turned into the main street, from a side one, and caught sight of Mr. Ringold and C. C.
"They look as though something had happened," observed Blake, as he noticed their friends hurrying toward them.
"Maybe they heard about you falling overboard, but didn't hear of your rescue," suggested his companion. But it was not that, as the boys learned a moment later.
Waving a slip of paper over his head, Mr. Ringold cried:
"I've got news, boys! News of our missing friends!"
"Really!" cried Joe.
"Yes, they heard from them in the New York office. I just received a telegram. It's quite a story."
"Where are they?" Blake wanted to know.
"Somewhere down the river," answered Mr. Ringold. "A message came from them in a bottle."
"A bottle!" cried Joe.
"Yes. They must have been carried down on the flood, and only had time to write a hasty message and fling it, stopped up in a bottle, into the river. Here's a long telegram from the New York office. I'll condense what it says."
"Then it's really news from them—from Birdie Lee and the others?" asked Blake.
"It surely is," answered the manager. "What happened after they went to the island to make moving pictures isn't stated. But a few days ago this telegram came to the New York office."
He then read:
"We are being carried down the river on part of a house that was washed away in the sudden flood. We are all together, but suffering very much. The waters rose very suddenly. Cannot tell where we will land. I am writing this and putting it in a bottle, which I will throw into the flood. Someone may pick it up and transmit it to you. Come to us if you can!"
For a moment the boys were silent, and then Blake asked:
"How did the message get to New York?"
"I had to make inquiries to find that out," replied Mr. Ringold. "It seems that the bottle was washed ashore and picked up by a colored man. He took it to his employer, who read the messages inside. They were signed by Mr. Levinberg, who also put in a five-dollar bill, to insure the sending of the telegram. With the note he wrote for transmission to me was one asking the finder of the bottle to take the message to the nearest telegraph office."
"But where was the bottle picked up? Where may we expect to find our friends?" asked Blake.
"Somewhere below here, I think," said Mr. Ringold. "The message was sent from a telegraph office about a hundred miles above here. Our friends probably drifted on the flood near there. They are still in the—beyond" and he motioned to the flooded section lying to the South.
"Then let's start!" cried Joe. "Every minute counts."
With the provisions aboard, a new supply of gasoline, and with the films Blake was taking when he went overboard safely put away in water proof cases, the rescuers once more took up their voyage.
The remainder of the day they kept on down the flooded river. Several times they came within a short distance of big pieces of debris, and collisions were narrowly averted.
The afternoon wore away and dusk settled down. It began to rain again, and it was rather a discouraged party that looked out from the cabin of the Clytie.
"Worse and more of it," murmured Blake, who was at the steering wheel. "Will it ever stop?"
"Now, now! None of that C. C. stuff!" spoke Joe with a laugh. "Things will come out all right yet. It's something to have had news of our friends, when we didn't expect any."
"Yes, but think of the plight they must be in—floating down this river in some house, that may go to pieces any minute!" cried Blake. "It's terrible—for Birdie and the others. The men may be able to stand it. But the ladies"
"Well, perhaps they are rescued by this time," said Joe, cheerfully. "That message was dated several days ago, you notice. And it must have been two or three days afloat. I have a feeling, somehow, that we'll find them all right."
"Well, I sure do hope so," spoke Blake. "Pshaw! I oughn't to be this way!" he exclaimed. "I must look on the brighter side. Perhaps they are all right, after all."
They ate supper in the enclosed cabin, for there was a cold drizzle of rain that made going outside unpleasant. No one felt much like talking, but the unexpected news had, in a measure, cheered them up.
"If they could only have given us some definite clew," spoke Mr. Ringold. "I'd do anything I could to rescue them. But it is like searching in the dark."
"And, speaking of the dark, reminds me that it will soon be dark here, and we'll have to look for some place to tie up," remarked Blake. "I think we'd better be getting over toward shore."
"And I agree with you," said Mr. Ringold.
He took the wheel, relieving Joe, who had not yet eaten. The craft was directed over toward the eastern shore, and a sharp lookout was kept for some sheltered cove where the night could be spent.
It grew darker rapidly, and the rain increased in violence.
"There's a lot of stuff coming down," observed Blake, as he stood at the wheel, beside Mr. Ringold. "More debris than we've seen in some time."
"That's right," agreed the manager. "There's an island just below us," he added. "I wonder if, by any chance, our friends could have landed on that."
"We might stop there and see," suggested Blake. "It might be a good place to spend the night."
"I'll try it, at any rate," Mr. Ringold said.
The island, now that the waters had risen on all sides of it, was rather small.
The motor boat was steered along the Western shore of it, but a nearer view showed that there could, by no possibility, be any one on it. For it was long and narrow, and a view could be had entirely across it.
"I guess we won't stop—there's no one there," the manager said, as he veered the boat away.
"No—there's no sign of them," agreed Blake.
They were approaching the foot of the island—that is, the down stream end, and, as the motor boat shot past it, carried by the powerful current, and her propeller, Blake uttered a cry of alarm.
"Look out for that raft!" he yelled.
Mr. Ringold looked in time to see a big lumber raft, unmanned and uncontrolled, coming down on the other side of the island. It turned the lower end just as the motor did, and before those on board the craft could do anything to avoid the danger, the raft had collided with them, striking the Clytie on the starboard bow with a resounding crash.
The boat heeled over, and seemed about to capsize.