The Moving Picture Boys and the Flood/Chapter 23
CHAPTER XXIII
THE LOST ONES
The raft, pushed hard against the end of the island by the power of the river current, buckled. The middle part rose up in the shape of the inverted letter V. The logs tore from their fastenings of ropes and chains, and broke and splintered one against the other.
"Come on!" yelled Blake. "Save what we can!"
He and the others rushed into the cabin, where their things had been stored. There was no food to be saved, and no time to roll off the water barrel. They would have to take their chances of finding a spring on the island, or drink the river water.
"The cameras! The films!" cried Joe, again. "Save them!"
He and his chum gave their attention to these. With them in their arms they rushed, as best they could, over the raft toward land. Mr. Piper and the manager looked after the clothing and bedding.
By this time the raft had swung around, broadside to the island, bringing the cabin that much nearer the shore. This made it more easy to save what few belongings they could take with them.
Back and forth they ran from the raft to the island. The cameras and the films were put in a safe place, and then the two moving picture boys helped in removing the other belongings.
Some clothing, some bedding, an axe, the rifle, and a few other things were all they had time to save. Then, with a splintering of timbers, a cracking of chains and a parting of ropes, the raft divided into two parts, one being swept down one side of the island, and the other portion down the opposite shore.
Blake, Joe and the two men stood beside their little heap of belongings, looking at one another with solemn faces.
For a moment no one spoke. They looked at the logs, rushing on down the river, and then Blake said:
"Well, things haven't stopped happening yet."
"I should say not!" cried Joe. "This is worse and more of it. What next?"
"No telling," said C. C., gloomily. "We'll probably starve here."
"Oh, I hope not!" said Mr. Ringold, with assumed cheerfulness. "There's probably a restaurant around the corner. We'll go there and have some roast chicken. Don't all speak at once."
To the credit of Mr. Piper be it said that he laughed. His gloomy periods seemed to be leaving him.
"Well, let's see where we're at," suggested Mr. Ringold. "What have we here?"
"Nothing to eat; that's certain," remarked Joe. "And I could take in a whole"
"Don't you dare say porterhouse steak!" interrupted Blake. "That would be adding insult to injury."
"All right; then I won't," agreed Joe.
"It's coming on night," spoke Mr. Ringold. "If we can't have supper we must, at least, provide some sort of shelter. We have some blankets, and we can cut down poles, and make a tent. It looks as though it was going to rain again."
It sure does," agreed Blake. "We've got to have some sort of shelter."
"To say nothing of something to eat," added Joe, in a low voice.
"Eat! I'd give a good bit, just for a muskrat sandwich!" said Blake.
Tired and discouraged, but still not giving up 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."
Mr. Ringold and Mr. Piper came up on the run to view the find. As Blake had said, it was a large tin of pilot biscuit, and only a little water had come in, thanks to the waxed paper covering.
"Say, if we only had the clam chowder that goes with these crackers, wouldn't it be great!" mumbled Joe, as he took another pilot biscuit.
"Quit it!" begged Blake.
For, be it known, pilot biscuit are large, hard, round crackers, made on purpose for serving with clam chowder, with which they make a most excellent combination.
As they sat there in the dusk, making a meal off these crackers, and drinking water (a spring having been found) Mr. Piper asked:
"Where did you say you found these, Blake?"
"Right up there, on that little knoll, by the big tree."
"And how did you say you thought they got there?"
"Why, I suppose the flood must have carried away a country store, and washed the box up, there."
"Did you see any other stuff washed up there—anything other than debris, or anything else in the eating line?"
"Not a thing—I wish I had."
"Well," remarked Mr. Piper, "I don't wish to raise false hopes, or anything like that, but I should say that this tin of pilot biscuit was dropped, or left, up there by someone who has been on, or who is still on, this island!"
"You mean—people?" cried Blake, leaping to his feet in surprise.
"That's what I mean. Why, this box of crackers never was washed up there by the flood—the water didn't come high enough. That box was dropped there by someone who took refuge on this island."
For a moment no one spoke, after C. C.'s announcement. Then Mr. Ringold remarked:
"I believe you're right!"
"Of course I'm right," declared the actor. "Why, it stands to reason that the box of biscuit was never washed up here. The flood hasn't got that high yet."
"And do you think whoever dropped it is still here?" asked Joe.
"That's more than I can say," went on Mr. Piper. "They may have been here a short time, and gone off again. Pilot biscuit is often carried on boats, for it keeps well, and is always good eating. Some boating party may have been here before the flood, having a picnic, as it were."
"Don't talk of picnics!" begged Blake. "It makes me think of good things to eat."
"Well, aren't you eating?" Joe wanted to know, with a grim smile.
"It's better than nothing," admitted Blake, as he took another cracker.
Our friends passed a wretched night. If you have ever tried to sleep in a leaky tent, in the rain, having had nothing worth while to eat, and, at the same time, anxious about your safety, you can, perhaps, imagine what Blake, Joe and the others suffered. They slept in fitful dozes, in spite of their wretchedness, and how they welcomed the morning light, raining though it was!
"First call for breakfast!" shouted Joe, as he brought out the tin of biscuits. "Regular prison fare—bread and water," he commented, with a laugh.
"Well, it's better than nothing," declared Mr. Piper, and the others rejoiced that, in this time of adversity, he could be so cheerful.
Leaving the cameras and films under cover of the tent and some blankets, as well as in the water-proof coverings, the party set off on a tour of exploration.
"We'll see if there are any persons on this island," said Mr. Ringold.
Through the rain they started off. It was not easy going, and they were weak from lack of proper food.
But, doggedly, they kept on. There was a hill in about the centre of the island, a hill that would seem to give a good view of the surrounding land.
Blake reached the summit first. He looked about him, and then gazed, steadfastly and earnestly, into a little glade that was below him.
"See anything?" asked Joe, as he panted up after his chum.
"I don't know—I—I" and Blake's voice trembled. "Are those tents down there, Joe, or—or is it only mist?"
"They're tents all right, old man! Big tents, too! Say, there are people here!" he fairly shouted.
"Come on!" cried Blake, starting down the slope.
They fairly ran down the hill. A little way from the tents the party of refugees came to a halt. Blake rubbed his eyes, as though to brush away clinging cobwebs. He stared at a girl who came from one of the tents.
"Birdie Lee!" he gasped.
"Blake Stewart!" came the surprised answer. "You here!"
And the two stared wonderingly at each other.