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The
impact almost hurled Freddy from his slender hold, but for a few seconds
the two boys were safe. Above the slippery bow poor Shag clasped his
arms, allowing his body to drift.
With but this frail anchorage, he well knew that the canoe would never
float them all. There was but little of her above the water. The waves
were beating hard now; any moment weak little Freddy and unconscious Hal
might be swept off. Once, as the fear of losing life gripped him, he
began to struggle on to the canoe; then he remembered, and slipped back
to float, to cling, to slowly--slowly--await the horrors of the unknown.
For five terrible minutes they drifted, minutes that were an eternity
to those on shore, and to those fighting for life in mid-stream. Then
around the bend of the island came the thin, shrill whistle of a steam
launch as it headed directly for the upturned canoe, the skipper
signalling to those on the island that he was hot on the way to the
rescue.
Old Professor Warwick wept like a woman when he saw it fly past, and the
boys gulped back their breath.


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