"I was looking; but it isn't in sight. We turned the boat over before it was all the way out of the water, so I reckon the piece of wood floated downstream. That doesn't matter much, anyhow, for there must have been a plug, you know, Lanky."
"Seems like it. But what are we going to do now," asked the tall boy, usually depending on his friend to suggest remedies in an emergency like this.
"Cut a plug and drive it in. Anything will hold till we get back to the boathouse. It's getting dusk too, so we'd better hurry."
"I tell you what, I'm going to make a little fire so that you can see to work. It is a weakness of mine, you know, Frank. Never get chances enough building fires. Any objection?" queried Lanky, eagerly.
"Not a bit, so go ahead. I may have some trouble finding a piece of wood suitable for a plug, and the light will help out," and Frank began to hunt around on the shore for signs of driftwood, thinking thus to discover a block that might have been cast on the island by the river at its higher stage in the spring.
While both lads are thus engaged it might be well to say a few words in connection with their object in ascending the Harrapin river at this late hour on a July day, and also concerning their aims and ambitions.
Frank Allen was the son of a merchant in Colum-
