ON A BIG ISLAND
"Say, we're having luck, all right!" exclaimed Blake, when it was made
certain that they were adrift again. "I thought we'd be stuck on that
island for days."
"So did I," returned Joe. "Yes, we've had luck, of a certain kind, but
it isn't going to feed us," and he looked at the shelves of that part of
the cabin called the "pantry." The shelves were empty of all save one
small tin of corned beef, and a box of crackers. That, with coffee, must
be their breakfast.
It seemed as though that night would never pass. Slowly it wore on, and,
through the storm and darkness, through the rising water, floated the
raft, bearing the rescue party onward. It was scarcely a rescue party
any longer, however, being more in need of rescue itself.
But, desperate as their plight was, our friends had not given up hope of
finding and saving the missing theatrical company. The chance and hope
were slim indeed, but Blake, Joe and the two men were not of the sort
that give up easily.
"Conditions must be fierce all along the river, the way the water keeps
on rising," said Blake, when the first faint streaks of dawn showed in
the gray, leaden-colored sky.
"I should say so!" agreed Joe. "The river must have gone up almost a
foot in the night, to lift us off the island. It took considerable power
to pull the logs out of the mud where they were stuck."
"I think the raft broke, and twisted away from the front logs," was
Blake's opinion, and this, later, was found to be so. So firmly imbedded
in the mud had been the jagged and sharp ends of the logs, that they had
remained there. But the stern of the raft, rising, had broken the
fastenings, and a section of it had been left on the island.
"All hands to breakfast!" called Mr. Piper, a little later. "And curb
your appetites," he added, grimly, as he pointed to the crackers and
corned beef on the rough table. "Don't ask for more than one helping of
pie, only one slice of white turkey meat to a customer, and no gravy.
What do you expect, anyhow?"
They made as merry as they could over the frugal repast, but it was
really no joke. Fortunately the coffee held out, and they knew they
could live on that for some time.
"If we could only work the raft to shore, or signal for help to some
steamer, we'd be all right," complained C. C. "But we can't do it."
The great flood had caused an almost complete cessation of river
navigation, at least in the stretches where they now were. They had seen
no craft of any kind since being obliged to take to the raft, and the
river was so wide that they could not communicate with towns on shore.
They passed several small hamlets that were deserted, for the water was
up to the second stories of the houses. The inhabitants had fled back to
higher ground.
"Well, we've got to do something," said Blake, when noon came, and the
pangs of hunger were felt. "I wonder if we couldn't build a signal fire,
or raise a flag of distress, or something like that. It might bring
help."
"We could try," agreed Joe. "Let's hoist a blanket up on the lantern
pole, and make a smudge fire. It'll be safe, for there's so much water
around us that we can put it out easily enough. It might do some good."
A ragged blanket was nailed up as high on the pole, amidships, as they
could reach, by standing on some boxes. Then preparations for making a
smudge fire, or one that smoked, rather than blazed, went on.
"Make it up forward," suggested Mr. Ringold. "And take a piece of the
stove grate from the oven to keep the blaze up from the logs. They're
green, but they might burn through, and cause trouble."
Blake went forward to look for a good place to make the fire, which
would be fed with damp wood, to cause more smoke. Joe was preparing some
splinters and light kindling, from packing boxes, to start it.
"Say, but I am hungry!" murmured Joe, as he looked for matches.
"So am I!" echoed his chum. "But I guess we'll have to take it out
in--coffee."
The fire was made, and a dense cloud of smoke arose.
"They ought to see that from shore, if it is two or three miles away,"
remarked C. C.
"If they'll only come out to investigate, and take us off," spoke the
manager. "Those who see it may think it is only a pile of rubbish on
fire."
"Well, we've done all we can," said Blake, despondently.
A spirit of gloom seemed to have settled down over them all. Probably
the lack of food caused it, though their plight was bad enough without
that being added to it.
Late in the afternoon, Blake, going forward to put some more wet wood on
the smouldering blaze, came hurrying back with a strange look on his
face.
"Say!" he cried to Joe, who was making a pot of coffee, "there is some
kind of an animal on the front end of this raft."
"Animal?" repeated Joe, wonderingly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean just what I say. There is some animal up forward there under
that pile of boxes," for some empty packing cases were stacked up front,
evidently placed there by the lumbermen to use, later, for fuel in the
stove.
"You must be dreaming," spoke Joe.
"I am not! Come and see!" invited Blake, and, slipping into the cabin,
he came out with the small rifle he had taken from the motor boat.
"What are you going to do?" asked Joe.
"Shoot it, if I get the chance," replied his chum, in determined tones.
Together the moving picture boys advanced cautiously.
"How did you happen to see it?" asked Joe, as they approached the pile
of boxes.
"Why, it ran out just as I stooped over to put some wood on the fire.
Then, when it saw me, it ran back again."
"What was it? How big was it?" Joe wanted to know.
"Well, it was pretty big," said Blake, "and it looked like a muskrat, as
much as anything."
"Maybe it was a muskrat," Joe suggested. "There must be a lot of 'em in
this river, especially since they've been driven out of their homes by
the high water."
"Are muskrats good to eat?" asked Blake.
"Why, yes, I've heard of people eating them," Joe replied, doubtfully.
"Why do you ask?"
"Because we might have to eat 'em," Blake went on, with a grim look
coming over his face. "I'm not going to starve."
"It isn't much fun," admitted Joe.
"You go over there, and tear down the pile of boxes," suggested Blake,
"and I'll stand ready to pop at it when the beast comes out."
"All right," assented Joe.
One by one he took away the empty boxes, tossing them aside. He was soon
down near the bottom of the pile.
"There doesn't seem to be anything here," he said.
"Oh, it's in there, all right," spoke Blake, confidently.
Hardly had the words left his lips than there was a scurry in one of the
boxes, and a big, grayish animal ran out.
"There he goes!" cried Joe. "Pop him over! Get him!"
Blake did not answer, but he threw the rifle to his shoulder, took a
quick aim, and pulled the trigger.
There was a sharp report, a little squeal, and then the animal, which
had run out to seek new shelter, curled up near the edge of the
raft--dead.
"There's your muskrat," said Blake, calmly. "Now let's eat him. We can't
be squeamish."
"Muskrat? That's no muskrat!" yelled C. C. Piper, as he came running up
to inquire the cause of the shot.
"What is it, then?" asked Blake.
"It's a 'possum, and a fine fat one, too!"
"Opossum!" repeated Blake. "Is it good to eat? That's what interests me
now, more than what sort of an animal it is."
"Good to eat! I should say so!" cried the moving picture actor. "They're
fine, baked with sweet potatoes."
"Well, we'll have to get along without the sweet potatoes, boys,"
remarked Mr. Ringold, laughingly. "But it's lucky you got him, Blake.
Opossum is good eating."
Blake and Joe looked a bit doubtful, but, when the animal was served,
they ate with a zest that comes from a good appetite.
"It must have jumped on the raft the time we were stuck on the island,"
said Joe. "And it's lucky for us that it did."
The opossum, so providentially obtained, served to put them over that
day and part of the next.
It was nearly noon, and the last of the opossum meat had been served,
and the last of the coffee made. Blake and Joe went down to the pile of
boxes, to lift them about again.
"We might find another 'possum," remarked Blake, and he took the rifle
with him. But, to their regret, there were no more aboard.
"I'd be glad to see even a muskrat," spoke Joe. But none of those
animals, which are greatly relished by some persons, was on the raft.
"If we only had our fishing tackle, we might try our luck in the river,"
suggested C. C.
"I guess we could rig up something," said Blake.
There was no need to do this, as they found some lines and hooks in the
cabin. They used some of the opossum skin for bait, but either the river
was too high, or the bait was not tempting enough, for they got no
bites.
Late that afternoon the raft swung around a bend in the river, and at
once there appeared, just below, a large island.
"We're heading right for it!" yelled Blake. "We'd better try to steer to
one side."
But to do this was out of the question. They had no method of steering
their unwieldy craft.
On they rushed, straight for the island, which was of large extent. It
was quite high, and well wooded.
"I guess we've got to land there whether we want to or not," cried Mr.
Ringold.
Hardly had he spoken, when the raft crashed into the island. The forward
logs were piled up brokenly on the shore, and a creaking, splintering
sound gave warning that the raft was going to pieces.
"She's breaking up!" yelled Blake.
"Save what stuff you can!" shouted Joe. "The cameras and films!"